Lost Perspective 4 : POST MORTEM
by Bellegeste
Summary: At the end of 'Repercussions', Snape had pretty much hit rock bottom. So, obviously, things can only get worse! There are two routes out of his depression, but who will be the one to help him: Draco or Hermione?
1. Escape Plans

**LOST PERSPECTIVE IV**

**POST MORTEM**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters in this story are borrowed from JKR with grateful thanks. All the Lost Perspective stories are written as a tribute - no copyright infringement is intended. **

**Author's Note: **

**After LP/3 (Repercussions) a lot of people asked me if I was hinting at a SS/HG ship. I hadn't been, but I started thinking about developing this thread and seeing where, if anywhere, it might lead. Apart from that, I had steered clear of any romantic storylines so far, so it would be something different for me to try… But I found the subject matter problematical: I couldn't help feeling that any SS/HG relationship would be inherently out of character. I had to tread very carefully, on what is already very well-trodden ground.**

**The story, as it eventually turned out, re-evaluates some of the scenes from _Repercussions_ and _LP 1_ and _2_ (hence the title POST MORTEM - not in a death fic way ) and proceeds from there.**

**(Please tell me what you think - but be kind, I'm a bit nervous about this one.)**

**The scene follows directly on from _Repercussions_ (it is the November of Harry's 6th year). It starts at Hogwarts on the morning after Snape finally cracked during the Ravenclaw Potions lesson. This is also the morning after Harry returns following his attempt to contact Sirius by going through the Whispering Archway.**

**(And, if you've read _Deck the Halls_, try to forget it for the time-being…)**

**CHAPTER 1 :ESCAPE PLANS**

Friday 6th November

Hogwarts

"You have to tell Harry," said Remus.

Snape didn't look up. He continued methodically checking the labelled bottles, ticking them off against a list on a scroll of parchment, and packing them carefully into a black, leather portmanteau. He was finding it hard enough to concentrate on the ingredients as it was, without an additional disturbance.

"You can't just go off without saying anything." Remus pressed the point, determined to elicit some kind of a response. "This research thing, whatever it is - surely it can't be so crucial that you have to take off immediately? It's not work for the Order. It's all very sudden. Can't it wait? Harry'll be very hurt, you know. He's only just got back. How can you even consider leaving without at least speaking to him?"

Snape closed the two halves of the case slowly and deliberately, letting the brass clasps snap shut with a decisive click. He turned to face Remus, his expression impassive, revealing nothing.

"That is not, and never has been, my intention. I shall inform the boy of my decision. In the meantime…"

"_Your_ decision! **_Your_** decision! Oh yes, that's rich! That's just typical!" Remus hurled the words back at the Professor. "And doesn't Harry have any say in this? Where does he fit into the equation, eh? Do you know, for a while you actually had me believing that you _cared_ about the lad. Just goes to show how wrong I was! As soon as he starts to get in the way of your precious arrangements, he becomes an encumbrance, and you discard him like a pet puffskein that's grown too big for its box. Demands of 'fatherhood' already getting a bit inconvenient, are they? Pah! He's a nice kid - he doesn't deserve you!"

"Be quiet!" snapped Snape. "I am under no obligation to explain or defend myself to you, werewolf. Nor do I propose to consult a child on matters which are of no immediate concern to him. His education will continue here uninterrupted - it's about time he settled into a disciplined routine – and my temporary absence will be of little consequence. As always, Lupin, you are over-dramatising the situation. I hardly think that having a substitute Potions professor for a couple of weeks will constitute a crisis in the estimation of the students. They will, _sans doute_, consider it a bonus," he concluded sourly.

One by one Snape was systematically double-checking the Locking Charms on the drawers and numerous individual compartments of the vast, oak-wood spice-chest, which housed several hundred of his rarer potions' ingredients, too valuable to be left in the classroom cupboards.

Remus, angrily jangling a handful of Knuts and Sickles in his trouser pocket as he tried to formulate his next argument, watched him in frustration. It was impossible to better Snape in a discussion. He had always been a sharp-tongued smart Alec, even at school - how many years ago was it now? Remus couldn't remember when he had first even noticed the skinny, silent Slytherin - had it been in their third year? …fourth year? He'd been a proud, moody, sulky sod even then, steeped in the Dark Arts, with a reputation for hexing first and asking questions later. He hadn't changed much, in Remus' opinion. He could still produce a cutting retort, a retaliation, an irrefutable counter-argument, or, failing that, he could shred you with sarcasm as easily as slicing a banana. And Remus always allowed himself to be goaded and provoked: five minutes with Snape and he became a blustering, hot-headed, emotional mongrel. If only he could command more of the proverbial Snape _sang-froid_. Though, come to think of it, just recently even Snape's silken self-possession had been wearing thin, had appeared frayed.

There he was now, functioning as a model of meticulous efficiency, but at what cost? Remus could see he was tired, the strain of the last few days betrayed in the tension lining the eyes, the taut pallor of his sallow skin, the furrow on his forehead now pursed into a deep, vertical gash separating the dark eye-brows.

Lupin decided to adopt a softer approach.

"He'll be worried about you."

"Quite unnecessary." Snape dismissed the comment, his attention focussed on a set of papers to which he was now adding some last-minute annotations.

"My God, you're a cold fish! Merlin only knows why, but that kid is starting to get fond of you, Snape - does that mean _nothing_ to you?" Remus cried heatedly. From a theoretical perspective, he had some sympathy with Snape's predicament; sometimes, in the abstract, he even felt sorry for the man. But, face to face - well, that always brought out the worst in him, in them both. Even a mutual interest in Harry's welfare could not erase twenty years of animosity.

Snape's quill paused, hovering over a paragraph. He swallowed before replying curtly,

"Most gratifying, I'm sure. But I refuse to allow the foolish sentiments of a manipulative adolescent to dictate my work schedule. It is imperative that the work be completed urgently."

A mild retort by Snape's standards. Remus, his head cocked, eyed the Potions Master quizzically. Normally Snape would have flattened him by now with some crushing, heavy-duty invective. He sensed something different about his colleague today. He sniffed the air, scented distress.

"Can't you do the experiments here, on school premises?" Remus asked, suggesting what seemed to him to be a reasonable compromise.

"No. I cannot. _I can't_…" The bleak finality in Snape's tone startled Remus. The black head was still bent over the papers, ostensibly reading, but there was a tightness, a rigid, forced immobility about the set of his shoulders that prompted Remus to ask,

"Snape - are you all right?"

It occurred to Lupin, later, that he might have made more effort to get the man to talk, been more persistent - if he had pushed, there was a chance, albeit a remote one, that Snape might have confided in him eventually - but really, trying to help Snape was worse than scaling a boundary wall embedded with broken glass.

"Of course I'm alright!" The defensive shards flashed dangerously.

"Look here, if I can do anything…" Lupin offered, not expecting for one minute that Snape would take him up on it.

"Just **leave it**, will you?" Snape knocked-up the pile of papers into a sharp-edged block and handed it briskly to Lupin.

"Lesson plans for the next two weeks. There's more than enough there to keep them fully occupied, without over-taxing _your_ limited brewing abilities. I should be away for a few days only; a fortnight at the most. And, I shall, in any event, return before the next full moon. Professor Dumbledore is satisfied that the supervision of my classes can be split between yourself, Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey. You will inform me -" he stopped, consciously modifying his tone to encompass a request. "You _will _inform me, if circumstances necessitate my return? I mean if Harry …"

"If he needs you?" interrupted Lupin hotly, losing patience. He snatched the papers in exasperation and headed for the door of Snape's office with a parting snarl:

"Merlin forbid that a child might actually _need_ his father!"

X X X

Meanwhile…

For once the empty seat in the NEWT Potions class did not belong to Harry. The missing student was Malfoy. Rumour had it that he had received a weeks' Suspension for the part he had played in Snape's arrest the previous weekend, though it was difficult to see how that could, in any way, be regarded as a punishment - more like a reward, as far as the other students were concerned.

One wag, thinking along the lines of recent Ministerial exercises in Muggle rapprochement, had postulated the idea of Community Service; but no one seriously believed that Cornelius Fudge, or even the entire Ministry, wielded sufficient coercive power to make Draco Malfoy run errands for little, old Muggle ladies, or pick litter up by hand in the nearest municipal park.

Harry felt that a weeks' Detention with Snape himself would have been a more effective punishment - Ron could have run another Tote on which of them would survive.

It was the first lesson of the morning. Harry's unexpected arrival in the dungeon had caused quite a stir - news of his sudden reappearance the evening before had been relayed round the school, but no one really trusted in this baton of gossip until they could see it and touch it for themselves.

'Resurrection' from even a hypothetical death was a definite crowd pleaser. The drama of Harry's disappearance, 'demise' and return had eclipsed the previous week's hot topic - the Daily Prophet's scandalous revelations about his relationship to Snape - and Harry was once again the hero of the hour. He allowed himself to bask, briefly. It was not a status he particularly sought, but the warmth of the reception he received on entering the classroom stroked his ego.

"Harry!" Hermione had, apparently, forgotten that she was upset with him. In front of all the others, she had openly and unashamedly embraced him - and it was such a spontaneous gesture of genuine friendship that, somehow, Harry was not embarrassed. The rest of the group gathered round to welcome him. He was so much the centre of attention that no one heard the dungeon door open…

"Take your seats!"

They leaped to attention, a knee-jerk reaction to any kind of instruction issued in the Potions room, anticipating a mass deduction of House Points for breaking ranks. But, standing at the front of the class, arms folded, surveying them sternly, was not Snape but Madam Pomfrey.

"Good morning one and all," she greeted them. "You needn't look so surprised. Professor Snape has other matters to attend to and, over the next few days, I shall be one of the staff standing in for him while he is away."

"Where's…?" Hermione began to whisper to Harry, but the question was quashed by a reproving 'shush' from the Matron.

Harry shrugged helplessly; he knew no more about Snape's plans than anyone else. Away? Where was he going? Had he already gone? Had he been summoned? Could he resist the call of the Dark Mark? Was Voldemort once again strong enough to send out his burning imperative? Was Snape OK? He'd seemed alright last night, once he'd got over the shock of Harry's turning up like that out of the blue. It'd been nice, Harry thought; Snape had actually seemed quite pleased to see him. He hadn't said much, of course - he never did - but to get a hug from the man, well, that was a first; that was a coup. _I'll have to be 'lost, presumed dead' more often…_

Harry could imagine himself drawing on such thoughts when he next needed to ingratiate himself with Hermione. He kept confidences such as these filed away under 'Private, but accessible for strategic use in intimate conversations', to be called upon whenever he was required to show evidence of sensitivity or heart-searching. Hermione was a sucker for all that 'keeping in touch with one's feminine side' stuff.

He had another 'deep' file - a mental substitute for his own personal Pensieve - for the special thoughts that he saved, just for himself. The real value of Snape's hug was filed there, password-protected.

(Flashback)

There hadn't been time to say anything much yesterday. Snape had got Harry to the couch before he crumpled into a heap, not taking his eyes off him, as though he might dematerialise again at any moment. When Harry had tried to speak, though, Snape had silenced him, giving him instead two slim squares of very dark chocolate - at least 75 cocoa solids, at a guess, Harry thought, irrationally distracted by the trivial statistic. He was still trying to reconcile the sharp, bitter, sophisticated taste with his former experiences of wizard chocolate - the sweet, milky chunks that Lupin dispensed so liberally after an energetic DADA lesson, for example - when Dumbledore arrived.

Madam Pomfrey had Floo-ed from the Muggle hospital to the Headmaster's study to tell him the good news, and she now followed the old wizard into Snape's sitting room.

"Well, well, my dear boy!" Dumbledore drew up a chair and sat down opposite Harry, leaning in towards him and giving him a reassuring, avuncular smile. "You've led us all a merry dance, and no mistake! A real Fandango. This'll be another one for the history books: another chapter in 'The Perils of Potter' or whatever title you choose when you eventually succumb to the pressures of commercialism and pen your auto-biography - or will you be employing the services of a _ghost-writer_, eh my boy?"

Snape, with a faint snort of disgust, rose and crossed to the fireplace to throw another couple of logs onto the flames. The dry bark popped and crackled, sending up a flurry of green and orange sparks and a smoky waft of apple-wood drifted through the room.

"Why don't you come and sit down, Severus? You've had an _eventful_ day." The Headmaster was tolerant of Snape's anti-social tendencies.

Snape remained standing by the hearth, scuffing out the occasional stray cinder with the toe of his boot, holding himself aloof from the banter of the reunion.

Dumbledore sighed in mock despair.

"Severus doesn't think your latest - er - 'quest' should be a subject for frivolity. No more do I, my boy. But your safe return is, verily, a cause for celebration. The Prodigal Potter! There is plenty of time for a _post mortem_, to pick over the bones, as it were, of the last few days - if I understand these things correctly, one might say there is an eternity of time…"

"In that case, the debriefing can wait until tomorrow." Madam Pomfrey bustled forwards. "I need to check this child over - reverse the side effects of a week of Muggle medicine. The first thing this boy needs is choco - oh, I see you've already had some. Good. And I suggest you take a few squares yourself, Professor. Now then Mr Potter, you come with me."

Ignoring his protests with the practised indifference of one long accustomed to dealing with recalcitrant teenagers, she ushered Harry off to the Hospital Wing.

Dumbledore also prepared to leave, ancient knees creaking as he levered himself up from the low chair.

"He's a spirited boy!" he commented, observing the Potions master thoughtfully.

"Spirited!" Snape hissed. "More like reckless and irresponsible!" He seemed to be toying with a number of other adjectives too, grinding them into the hearth along with the cinders, his jaw too tense to say the words out loud. Finally, reluctantly, he lifted his hooded gaze to meet Dumbledore's.

"I don't know what to do with him," he admitted, his voice leaden.

From the magical folds of his purple robe, Dumbledore produced a much-thumbed sheet of parchment - a master timetable. He perused it intently, biting his lower lip in concentration as he used his wand as a pointer, adjusting and rearranging the busy grid of teachers' names and classroom locations. He laid it out on his empty chair.

"Cast your eyes over this, Severus. It is a mere suggestion, but I would advise you to give it some serious thought. Take as much time as you need." He paused in the doorway. "And, Severus, don't be too hard on yourself - you did all you could. It has all worked out fine. You can get some sleep tonight. He's safe now."

X X X

(Friday again)

Madam Pomfrey completed her circuit of the dungeon. She was not impressed.

"Terrible working conditions. Shouldn't be allowed," she tutted. "The lighting in here is atrocious - no wonder I have you all coming to me complaining of headaches and eye-strain. How can he have purposely chosen a classroom with no natural light? _'Lumos'_ is a poor substitute. Honestly - men! What was he thinking? The ventilation is appalling too - borders on the illegal, I shouldn't wonder - given the amount of toxic fumes generated down here. Now then, Mr Boot and Mr Potter, see if you can crank open those ventilation grilles a bit wider - get some fresh air into the place. You should do that at the beginning of every lesson - I'll make a note to mention it to the Professor. If he objects, you can refer him to me."

Harry suspected that, on a health issue, with right and common-sense clearly on her side, Madam Pomfrey was stubborn enough to be a match even for Snape. It was a confrontation he would have liked to witness.

"The temperature in this room is completely unacceptable," she complained next, adding another note to her list and chafing her hands together, emphasising the cold. "And it's damp. It's a miracle you're not all dying of consumption!"

Sometimes she looked as though she would be more at home in a Swiss sanatorium, nursing TB patients, thought Harry, or in a field hospital in the Crimean war. She had that air of old-fashioned practicality, combined with an unshockable, nanny-like strictness - in public, at least.

"_Incendissimo_!" She used the emergency ignition spell she normally reserved for warming hypothermia victims. The fire not only lit, but became an instant furnace, belting out heat so that, after only a few moments, the class was warm enough for them to shed their cloaks and roll up their sleeves. She strutted between the rows of desks, scanning the furniture for sharp edges and the floor for cracked and uneven flagstones.

"One splinter can be enough to give you blood-poisoning," she told them, primly. "Why should I waste my time and magic curing you all, when a few basic precautions could have prevented an accident?"

The ad hoc Health and Safety assessment over, Madam Pomfrey took up a conventional stance at the front of the room.

"Professor Snape has asked me to revise some of the more common Healing Spells and Potions with you. Don't groan, Miss Parkinson - I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I'll have you know that a rudimentary knowledge of First Aid Potions can come in very useful…

"But before we get on to those, I'd like to take this opportunity to draw your attention to the kinds of injuries I have to deal with every day in the Hospital Wing as a direct result of Potions classes. Now, they may not be as dramatic, or as amusing, as the mistakes I have to rectify from botched Transfigurations, for example; nor am I talking about reversing the effects of a deliberately ingested Potion such as, Miss Granger, Polyjuice…

"What, for instance, do you think is the most common cause of accidental Potion-related illness? Anyone? Miss Abbot? Burns and scalds? Yes, a good answer. Not necessarily the one I was looking for, but valid all the same. You do all tend to forget that these cauldrons get **hot**… Miss Brocklehurst? Cuts? Yes, but again, not precisely what I had in mind. Though, while we are on the subject of cuts, I must strongly recommend that you do not prepare any Potions ingredients if you have any cuts or abrasions on your exposed skin. I'm sure you will all recall the incident last year when Huw Harris was chopping Woadwort and the sap entered his bloodstream via a paper-cut on his little finger. He was a vivid blue for several days. I trust the Professor has emphasised the absolute necessity of sterilising your chopping boards…?

"Does any one else have any ideas? What's that, Miss Granger? Steam inhalation? That's it, exactly! Excellent answer! You wouldn't believe how many cases of nausea, dizziness, headaches, palpitations and other symptoms of mild poisoning I have to cure, because you lot have unintentionally inhaled the active ingredients in the course of your practical brewing exercises. A surprising number of toxins can be carried in water vapour - you don't even realise you are ingesting them until it is too late.

"So, a final word of warning: if you are not willing to wear surgical masks in class - and I'm afraid Professor Snape has always drawn the line at that one - you should at least follow these simple guidelines: attempt to stir your potions at arm's length; do not lean over your cauldrons and do not, under any circumstances, inhale the fumes…"

She tipped up her nurses' watch that was pinned to her chest and, reading the time, pulled a guilty face.

"Dear me, we must press on with the revision. Professor Snape did say he'd drop in a list of the specific potions he had in mind for study before he left. I do hope he hasn't forgotten. But, for the time-being, let's see how many Healing Potions you have encountered…"

Harry's hand was already in the air.

"Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey, but…"

She gave him an indulgent smile.

"I think I'll have to disqualify you from answering this one, Harry. You have an unfair advantage over your classmates, some of whom have barely set foot in the Hospital Wing…"

"No, Ma'am, that wasn't what I… Did you say Professor Snape would bring the list _before he left_? Do you mean to say he _hasn't already gone_?"

He was out of his seat and half way to the door before the Matron had a chance to reply. Hermione made a move to follow him then stopped, looking despairingly from Madam Pomfrey to the retreating figure of Harry.

"Oh, go on, Hermione. Keep an eye on him. Don't let him do anything rash."

Hermione dived for the door.

**End of Chapter. Next chapter : THE LAST STRAW. Why is Snape leaving? **


	2. The Last Straw

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM**

**By Bellegeste**

**Author's note: Snape is tough; he wouldn't just crumble at the first sign of trouble. But I got to thinking that he would have to be a super-hero to come through unscathed after all the trials I have put him through during my first three stories. And I like to think he is human.**

**There is a lot of re-capping in this chapter - to remind you of just how much he has had to endure since the beginning of term - that's only two and a bit months! (Actually, if you haven't read the first three stories, this chapter gives a fair summary.) It also adds a few details that would have been omitted when the story was told from Harry's PoV, and focusses more on Hermione's reaction to events. Harry never seems to think about how his actions affect Snape: Hermione and Remus think it's about time someone told him a few home truths...**

**CHAPTER 2 : THE LAST STRAW**

Friday 6th November

Hogwarts

In the corridor they hurtled into Professor Lupin. He had just left Snape's office and was pacing slowly, head bowed, engrossed in thought; in one hand he was carrying a rolled sheaf of papers - lesson plans.

"Remus!" panted Harry. "Is he still here?"

"Oh, so you've heard - he can't say I didn't warn him," said Lupin in a jaundiced tone. "Yes, he's there - see if you can get the man to see sense. It's like talking to a tombstone! A cracking tombstone."

"What are you getting at, Remus?" asked Hermione. She grabbed Harry by the arm to prevent him from rushing straight on to Snape's office. Remus shook his head sorrowfully, his recent squall of anger already spent and blown over.

"What do I know - I'm just an ignorant, over-emotional werewolf, according to him. Merlin knows, I tried to be patient, but his attitude! Grr, it makes my blood boil! You try to help someone, and they throw it back in your face! Why do I bother?"

"Perhaps because you're a really nice guy?" said Hermione, giving his arm a squeeze, and flashing him the kind of smile that always made him bashful. "But why were you trying to help Professor Snape? Is something wrong?"

Harry was tugging to go.

"We'll talk to you later, Remus," he said, "OK?"

"No, wait a minute, Harry." Remus also put out an arm to restrain him. "Look, I may be speaking out of turn here, but I reckon Snape's had just about as much as he can take. Don't you go barging in there on your high horse."

"Why? Who's melted his cauldron this time? He's in a strop, is he? About what? Me? Yeah, I suppose I'm the culprit, as per usual. Is that it? I don't see what all the fuss is about. I got back OK, didn't I? There's no need for him to make a drama out of it. I've got a good mind to Apparate back to the Archway and have another crack at it…" An empty threat, carelessly flung, but Remus bristled.

"Don't even joke about it, Harry. You've caused Snape enough trouble as it is. Pull one more stunt, and it may be the last straw. I've never seen him like this. He's wound up tighter than a Dragon's arse! Oh, sorry, Hermione, I shouldn't have said that." Remus apologised, flustered.

Hermione waved it away, too anxious about Snape to be shocked by Lupin's language. Harry, though, was indignant.

"You make it sound as though everything I do is calculated to get at him," he protested. "That is so not true! Did the séance harm him in any way? No! Is it my fault that he goes ape because I tried to contact Sirius? No! You can't all blame me for everything! It's not fair."

He shrugged off the restraining hands of Hermione and Remus and faced them, defiance masking the fact that he was suddenly very worried about his father. What if he _had_ pushed him too far?

"Whoa, Harry, calm down. Nobody's accusing you," said Remus, soothingly. "But you must admit you've given him a pretty tough time this term. I mean, I know there's never been any love lost between the two of you but, Harry, as Merlin's my witness, at the beginning of term the _atmosphere_ between you was so tense I could _smell_ it! You didn't exactly hide your hostility, you know.

"He may not be the easiest man to get along with - and I should know! - but he's not a complete monster. He does _notice_ these things. Can you imagine what it's like trying to teach and maintain authority when you're facing face of that level of antagonism every day? He must have dreaded teaching you lot - I know I do, and you're pretty easy-going with me, on the whole."

He tried to soften the criticism, but Harry was looking chastened.

"Like that time with the Puff Pod," Hermione commented.

"Hey!" Harry rounded on her. "Come off it! You can't lay that on me! That was all Piggy Parkinson's fault. I had nothing to do with it!"

"No, but he was _hurt_, wasn't he? And the rest of you all thought it was funny." She defended herself. Remus was listening keenly - he hadn't heard this story. Serious Potions accidents were a fairly rare occurrence (especially now that Neville Longbottom had quitted the class), and besides, details of occasional Potions disasters seldom filtered back to the staff-room. Snape jealously guarded his reputation for maintaining the highest safety standards.

"You'll have to fill me in on that one sometime," Lupin whispered to Hermione. She nodded, distracted. "Then," he reminded the petulant boy, "there was all the business with You-Know-Who. Wait, Harry, I'm not going to dredge it all up again - we know there were reasons and excuses and all that, but you really put him through the mill there. He let you off lightly, you know, considering… That 'Mark' of his has been giving him gyp ever since…"

"Has it? He's never said anything." Harry was hopeless at picking up on signals. Hermione gave him a pitying glance. Remus continued,

"I don't pretend to like the bloke, but I have to admire his endurance. Those injuries were horrific - the torture must have been vicious, unimaginably so. Doesn't bear thinking about. And Poppy says he was ill too..."

"He got pneumonia," mumbled Harry.

"And pleurisy, I think Madam Pomfrey said," added Hermione, wanting Harry to face up to the full consequences of his thoughtlessness.

"I don't even know what that is," said Harry.

"It's… well, it doesn't matter what it is; but it's not very pleasant." Hermione sounded reproachful.

"Look - I rescued him in the end, didn't I? AK-ed Voldemort and got us both out of the cellar. Doesn't that count for anything? How was I supposed to know he was going to get sick?" Harry retaliated.

"What did you think would happen? Blasting someone with _Crucio_ is hardly going to make them _well_, is it?" Hermione blazed.

"Alright, you two. Pax!" Remus intervened, stepping between them. "The point I'm making, Harry, is that, even when you're not acting under the influence of some Dark curse or another, you seem to have an uncanny talent for causing Snape trouble."

"Oh, great. Been slagging me off in the staffroom, has he? What's he said?" Harry toyed with a picture of Snape starkly enumerating a catalogue of his misdeeds before the assembled staff. Surely he was too proud to sink so low?

This wasn't what the werewolf had been implying.

"No, don't get me wrong. I would have thought you'd know him better than that by now, Harry. He's hardly breathed a word of anything that's passed between you. Well, maybe to Professor Dumbledore… I don't know. If anything, he's played down any, um, 'inconveniences' he may have suffered. But we're not _blind_…

"For example - the week you spent together at his house…"

"What about it?" Harry grunted.

"Well, Dumbledore, as I understand it - I may have got the wrong end of the stick - Dumbledore wanted the two of you to spend some quiet time together, to get to know each other. Didn't he? I think he had visions of cosy fireside chats and long games of wizard chess, while you kept an eye on Snape and made sure he didn't over-tire himself while he was convalescing."

"So?" Harry's guilt was monosyllabic.

"So, Harry, from what I've heard, you spent the week at each other's throats, having one argument after another, or traipsing round the countryside in the rain - just the thing for a man only days out of hospital - or getting yourself beaten up and left for dead. Snape was pretty cut up about that, you know. And, while we're on the subject, how you could go on letting me believe he had attacked you! I felt a complete fool when he explained it to me."

"Did he explain?" asked Harry. "Everything?"

He watched as Remus mentally re-ran the conversation with Snape. From his perplexed expression it became obvious that his father had, in fact, explained very little.

"No, I thought not," Harry said. Then aware that both Remus and Hermione were staring at him, willing him to fill in the gaps, he went on:

"Honestly, I would tell you, but… you see, when we were there - at Snape Cottage - he told me a lot of stuff, _personal stuff_, about his - my - family; about his parents, and being a Death Eater, and about my mother. And I promised I wouldn't tell anyone because it was all, well, sort of, _private_ - so I can't say anything, because I promised. OK?"

For some reason that was lost on Harry, this prompted Hermione to take his hand; she squeezed it gently.

"Fair enough. Good man, Harry." Remus thoroughly approved of honouring a promise. "You may not have been aware of it, but all that week while you were staying with him Snape was in contact with Dumbledore and the Ministry, trying to get the charges against you dropped - there was quite a list, I can tell you! Under Age Apparation, repeated casting of Unforgivables, kidnapping, collusion… um, what else? Assault, vandalism, deception, fraud, inciting the enemy to acts of violence and, oh yes, that old chestnut - 'wasting Ministry time'…"

"What? That's crazy!" Harry laughed.

"Yes," agreed Remus, "some of the charges were rather fanciful. But it still took a great deal of effort to get them dismissed. And finally, on that last Sunday, Snape - "

"…buggered off," interjected Harry. It still rankled.

"Dragon's teeth! Cut him some slack, can't you, Harry? You know he wouldn't abandon you for the fun of it. He told me how he'd brewed my Wolfsbane at record speed so that he could spend some time with you on Saturday afternoon - but you'd gone wandering off somewhere, and by the time he found you it was almost too late…He said he thought you were dead."

"No, he brought me back," murmured Harry.

"Snape said it was touch and go for a while; then, yes, he took you back to the Cottage," said Remus patiently.

"No! Not Snape, Sirius! It was Sirius who brought me back. I was there, with the Whispering Shadows, and I heard his voice. It was Sirius. He told me it wasn't my time yet. _He_ brought me back…"

"Ohmigod!" breathed Hermione beside him, as the events of the last week and Harry's bizarre behaviour began to make sense. "You found Sirius!"

"I knew he was there. I'd heard the voices. That's why I had to try to make contact. He was there…"

"So all those meetings with Luna…?"

"…were about the séance or going through the Archway to find him again."

Harry's loyalty to Snape, and his patent lack of interest in Luna, seemed to have restored Hermione's faith. Still holding Harry's hand, she looked questioningly at Remus. They could discuss Sirius later - _he_ wasn't going anywhere now. Her sympathies lay with the living. Now she was more concerned about Snape.

"You were going to tell us what happened after that Saturday," she prompted him. "Why Snape left so suddenly."

Remus too had been captivated by the idea of meeting up with his old friend, Padfoot, and would dearly have liked to hear about the mysteries of the Archway. He had to force himself to remember that they were discussing 'Snivellus'. The schoolboy nickname sounded in his head unbidden, his memory echoing with Sirius' bored, mocking drawl. In those far off days, dazzled by the egotistical brilliance of Sirius and James, Remus had never quite had the courage of his convictions; too often he had allowed his better judgement to be swayed, had laughingly followed the arrogant lead of his two friends; he had quelled his reservations over their campaign to torment Snape. It was too late now to make amends; the damage was done. But he could, at the very least, represent the man fairly to his son. He owed him that much.

"What? Oh yes. Well, obviously I'm not privy to all the details, but it sounded to me as though Snape blamed himself for what had happened to Harry at the Manor… whatever it was."

Harry shrugged, giving nothing away.

"…and he really didn't want to leave him alone when he'd been so badly hurt, but he had no choice. He'd been summoned to appear before the Auror Interrogation Squad on Sunday morning."

"Why, what had he done?" asked Hermione. Even Harry was interested now.

"Nothing. But he'd negotiated some sort of a deal with Fudge - inside information on Death Eater activity and his most recent experiences with You-Know-Who, in return for Harry's freedom - with a few conditions attached: the WHIIMP thing, withdrawal of privileges and so on." Remus looked meaningfully at Harry. "He didn't have to do that, Harry. And Tonks said that, by all accounts, the Aurors didn't give him an easy time of it either. She knows the guys involved and they have a reputation for being 'thorough'.

"And then, that same evening, there was the meeting of the Order. I couldn't be there myself, as you know, but Tonks said Snape looked shattered when he arrived, and by the time the Order had finished with him, he was wiped out. Dumbledore made him tell them how the two of you had aggravated You-Know-Who, and triggered this spate of retaliatory action. Well, the Order wasn't exactly sympathetic. Tonks said Molly Weasley got positively abusive."

"I can imagine," said Harry in a flat voice. He was feeling increasingly like a soft-boiled egg, with his insides being systematically scooped out, spoon by spoon. "He could have told me all that therapy crap with Lardon was part of some deal," he grumbled, aggrieved. "I thought he'd given up on me. He seemed all in favour of the WHIIMP programme - I thought it was weird at the time, but I was too pissed-off with him to ask him about it. Why couldn't he have discussed it with me? But no, it was "_You'll do as you're told_!" - he's always so damn autocratic!"

Remus grinned at Harry's impersonation of Snape's voice - sharp, cold and disconcertingly accurate.

"Yes, well, try and understand, Harry. He didn't have much choice on that point either, I gather. Fudge had ordered that, at the first sign of non-cooperation from you, Snape would be carted off to Azkaban."

Hermione gasped.

"Which is why," Remus said, "he was so delighted when Lardon resigned of his own accord. Don't know what you said to that psychiatric fellow, Harry, but Snape was proud of you. That's one thing he did tell us. It's the only time I've ever heard him brag about something in the staff-room. Of course, Lardon must have given Hogwarts a fairly damning report because, it seems, they couldn't find a replacement. He got his own back later, though, squealing to the Daily prophet like that. Bad luck for you - a cheap attack."

"But effective." Harry still smarted at the memory of that ignominious slow hand-clap, the pulsating ill-will of the entire school directed against him, the blistering insults from Malfoy…

"We all wondered, at the time, why you showed so little surprise at Snape's absence from Hall that morning. Obviously, we – the staff, I mean – knew by then he'd been arrested, but none of the students should have known. It did look suspicious - as though you didn't expect him to be there," Remus probed. Harry bridled, aware that, in the light of actual events, his own initial interpretation would appear mean-spirited and selfish.

"I thought he was avoiding me," he confessed miserably. "I'd hardly seen him all week - I thought he didn't want to be bothered with me any more."

"We have all been frightfully busy - the duties of the Order are putting us under a great deal of pressure, in addition to our normal workload." Remus found himself sticking up for Snape. Harry barely noticed.

"I'd really yelled at him at the beginning of the week - about leaving me on my own that Sunday, and about not warning me about … the thing I can't talk about. _And_ I told him what he could do with the Therapy…"

Hermione was listening with a doubtful expression.

"But, Harry, in the lab later on - you know, when we went to make that lotion for Crookshanks - he was fine - well, a bit picky and tired and preoccupied, but then that's normal for him, isn't it? - until you threw a spanner in the works. And then he got really upset - honestly, Harry, you didn't see his face as he walked back down that classroom. What did you say to him?"

"I don't see why it's such a big deal." Harry felt that he was under attack again. "He'd just got the impression that I blamed him for what had happened at the Manor - I mean, on the Saturday."

"Probably my fault, I'm afraid, old boy. I'd more or less accused him of assaulting you. I didn't mince my words," said Remus apologetically.

"He'd concocted this special balm for me to get rid ofsome bruises - bloody good stuff too, when I tried it - but, I dunno, I suppose I didn't react in the way he'd hoped. I think he may have used _Legilimens_…"

"So what _were_ you thinking?"

"That he'd only made it for me as a sop to his conscience…"

"Oh for God's sake, Harry!" remonstrated Hermione. "You're as bad as each other! Don't you recognise an olive branch when you're given one? When it's waved right in your face? After all he's done for you! If you can't see by now that Snape cares about you, then you're an utter moron. If he didn't, you'd be in prison right now. What do you expect him to do - go down on his knees? Write it in blood?"

"At least I'd know what he was going on about! I can't handle all this 'intuition'," moaned Harry.

"Just as a matter of interest…" Remus tried to nudge the conversation down a more productive route. "Do either of you happen to know whether Draco Malfoy has ever had any Occlumency instruction?"

Harry and Hermione stopped bickering and addressed the question together.

"Not as far as we know. If he has, it's not been from Snape. Why?"

"Severus was adamant that he detected no deception when he quizzed Draco on your whereabouts that Thursday night, before he went to the Dursleys'. I think that's been preying on his mind too - he's worried he's losing his touch. He said he didn't completely believe Malfoy, but he couldn't afford to take the risk - especially when you weren't in your dormitory, and the Fat Lady confirmed that she had let you out some time earlier… Where were you, Harry?"

"Chatting to Nick," Harry mumbled. He was running out of excuses. All his bolt holes had been plugged and they were smoking him out into the open.

"What?" They couldn't hear.

"Alright! I was talking to Nearly Headless Nick about the séance. Satisfied?"

Hermione glared at Harry accusingly.

"Oh, so the séance didn't _harm_ him? Isn't that what you said? Only landed him in custody, that's all! Indirectly, anyway. No _harm_ done. Harry, wake up to yourself! You never seem to think that anything you do affects anybody else, but it does - even if you can't see it at the time.

"Snape's the same - you're both as bad as each other. He's in there right now, planning to go away to do goodness knows what, and he probably has no notion that it'll affect us at all. I mean, look at us now - we've been standing in the corridor for half an hour arguing about him!"

"So why don't we go to his office, then we can argue **with** him instead," said Harry sullenly.

"Walking in with an attitude like that isn't going to help anyone - least of all your father," Remus pointed out. "Just remember, he went to the Dursleys' that night to protect **you** - you could at least be grateful. If you'd been asleep in bed, where you should have been…"

"OK, OK, so it's my fault he was arrested! What am I supposed to do about it now?"

"You could try looking a bit sorry!" snapped Hermione. "Three days he was in detention. _Three days!_ Not knowing what had happened to you - whether it had been a hoax or not; not knowing if he'd be set free or found guilty… And I bet they interrogated him again, for the hell of it. I hope you're proud of yourself, Harry.

"And then he was released from gaol, and he comes back here, and what does he find? Were you at the Dursleys' that night? No. Were you abducted by Voldemort? No. Terrific! You'd been here all along - "

Remus again tried to calm things down, picking up on Hermione's last point:

"Which, incidentally, made Snape's story look rather fishy - undermined the credibility. Until Malfoy came forward with his evidence, it looked very much as though Severus was going to end up in Azkaban."

"Great! So he's a saint now, and a martyr. Fine ! Hallelujah!" Harry felt his position growing increasingly shaky, and the only way to cling on was to knock someone else off the cake-walk. "I didn't know what had been going on; I couldn't do anything to get him released. I didn't have any proof…"

"No, but I bet you had a pretty shrewd idea that Malfoy was involved somehow - go on, deny it! What is it with you and Malfoy, anyway? How can you say you hate each other and yet be watching out for each other at the same time? It's contrary! Is it a Slytherin thing?"

Hermione's barbed comment snagged on Harry's inner doubts.

"**I'm not in Slytherin**!"

"You might as well be. You're behaving more like one every day," she went on hurtfully.

"Come on, guys. This really isn't helping." Remus had assumed the role of peacemaker. "Drop it."

"I don't see why you're getting into such a flap about Snape anyway," sulked Harry. "I was only going to say goodbye. What d'you think I'm going to do - attack him? I know things were bad earlier on this term, but we've sorted that now. He was fine yesterday."

Lupin and Hermione exchanged glances; a subliminal message passed between them. Lupin raised his brows a fraction and his shoulders gave the merest twitch that might have been a shrug.

"What?" demanded Harry.

"You didn't see him earlier this week, Harry," said Hermione softly. "When he got out of detention and learned that you really had disappeared this time… And that he'd been stuck there in the Ministry and not known about it… Harry, he was frantic.

"How could you do it, Harry? Getting mixed up in one of Luna's crazy, dangerous schemes? Sneaking off like that as soon as Snape was safely out of the way?"

_I had to do it at Halloween while the thresholds were still open. I had to find Sirius; talk to my mother. I thought I'd only be gone an hour or so… I didn't mean to worry anyone._

Harry said nothing. Hermione's voice was getting shrill:

"God, he probably thought you'd planned to have him arrested yourself! Heaven knows what he's been thinking! We… we all thought you were dead!"

Her eyes glistened and she twisted away with a muffled sniff. Remus took over, speaking gravely:

"Snape put an awful lot of effort into finding you, Harry. In hours he had mobilised the entire Order and their contacts to carry out a nationwide search. He had Shacklebolt and Tonks scouring the Ministry. And Poppy visiting the hospitals. I think he may even have got in touch with some of his old Death Eater associates."

"But that's suicide!" declared Harry. "It's not safe for him to - "

"He wouldn't listen. He's like you!" Remus gave a strained laugh.

"Potions lessons were simply dreadful." Hermione had blinked back her tears and joined in again. "Snape couldn't concentrate on anything. He'd set us the work, but he hardly bothered to see what we were doing - he'd just pace up and down the dungeon… He looked awful, Harry - I don't think he slept, or even ate, for days…

"And yesterday, in a 5th year Ravenclaw class… Oh Harry, he lost it completely!"

She turned away again, not wanting Harry to see her cry. She wasn't the crying type - usually.

"He had been under a great deal of stress," said Remus. "It was understandable, though not the kind of thing we expect from a member of Hogwarts' staff - especially not Snape."

Behind Lupin's back, Hermione raised an imaginary glass to her lips and mouthed the word 'Firewhisky'.

"Oh, no." Harry hadn't realised things had gone this far.

"And then Luna said something about you going through the Archway," said Hermione. She looked at Lupin. "You were there, Remus, you tell him…"

"Yes, I had - um - been alerted to the fact that there was a 'problem' in the Potions class. When I got there Luna told us about the Archway, which, I'm afraid, confirmed everyone's suspicions that you were indeed dead. And Snape - well, it was scary. He was like an automaton: whatever emotions he felt, he channelled them all inwards. Hardly reacted at all until Luna gave him that book…"

"A book with a secret message from your mother!" burst out Hermione. "It's all so sad!"

Remus put a comforting arm around her shoulder and she leaned against his chest, not sobbing but deeply moved.

"Oh, shit!" said Harry.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: THAT SINKING FEELING. Even Snape knows he's out of his depth…**


	3. That Sinking Feeling

**A/N:** To Magic and sparkle: Yes, my Harry has a tendency to be difficult, and Hermione, in this fic, is somewhat over sensitive as regards Snape. But there's a reason for that. If you'd read the first three stories you'd probably be used to tetchy Harry by now. As regards the 'talkiness', there's more actual action in LostP. 1, 3 and 6.Lost P. 2, 4and 5 are more reflective and 'talky'.

We now see things from Snape's point of view. Snape in a dark mood, soul-searching, does not make for an easy chapter.

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 3 : THAT SINKING FEELING**

Friday 6th November

Hogwarts

Harry came to a decision.

"Come on," he said to Hermione, "We're going to see him now. It's OK, Remus, I'm not going to wind him up. I'll be ultra tactful. I'll just say 'goodbye', alright? If he's got anything to say to me, he can say it. And if not… well, that's his business." Harry was putting a brave face on things.

Hermione hung back, not wanting to intrude.

"I'll just be in the way. You don't want me there," she said. But Harry pulled her along with him.

"I thought that's what you and Lupin have been trying to tell me for the last half hour - that what** I **want isn't what's important here? Be consistent, Hermione! It'll be better for Snape if you come along too - it'll give him an excuse not to say anything _personal_. That's the part he finds so difficult."

He knocked at the door of Snape's office. There was a short pause, then Snape's low voice answered,

"Enter."

Snape had been ready to Floo when Lupin left the room. Yet, for the past forty minutes, he had been sitting and staring, unfocussed, at nothing, thinking nothing, merely experiencing the slow passage of time, unable to motivate himself to action, putting off the moment when he had to confront his son. Why did he assume it would be a confrontation? It didn't have to be. He never intended it to be. But the boy was inherently confrontational. There was no denying it. He always seemed to be _expecting_ something, and then resentful when Snape didn't produce it. And, instead of being able to diffuse a potentially explosive situation, Snape's reaction always exacerbated it. He knew that. It irritated him; troubled him too. Today the prospect wearied him. He couldn't face it.

He couldn't face anything. Certainly not a classroom full of kids expecting to be taught, in one easy lesson, how to 'bottle glory' or 'brew fame'. He had been doing it for fifteen years, and today he simply could not do it any more.

This was not the standard 'Monday morning' malaise - that sense of compressed irritation and futility that assailed him on entering the dungeon and seeing those interchangeable, blank faces, year on year. That, lamentable though it might be, led to an _understandable_ anomie, compounded by boredom, lack of stimulation and the stale predictability of repeating the foundation syllabus. He had strategies to help him through those depressing days: there was a certain satisfaction to be gained from lightly tormenting the students - 'stern encouragement' with the merest hint of sadistic brutality; nothing too violent, nothing that would leave the little blighters physically maimed or psychologically damaged. A tone of voice could suffice; the ironic quirk of an eyebrow could be enough to send them cowering…

Introducing an element of _risk_ into the lessons - that was another cheap entertainment. Nothing life threatening, of course, but the occasional controlled explosion had a distinct diversionary value. Sharpened their reflexes too; taught them respect for the power within the potion.

No one could deny that he got results. It was not uncommon for his NEWTs classes to score straight Os across the board. He might win no laurels for teaching methods; he had no sycophantic, boot-licking fan-base scraping to improve their grades. Oh, the occasional over-zealous young Slytherin might try a touch of smarm, usually at their parents' instigation, but Snape was quite capable of selecting his own favourites…

Today it was different; he didn't understand what was happening to him. Something inside him had snapped yesterday: the sight of those young Ravenclaw faces, not eager, but alive with _potential_, had filled him with despair. He had had potential once. He could have been a great wizard. What had happened? Where had it all gone wrong? Those children had reminded him, too starkly, of what he had lost - not only Harry, but the years of his own lonely life, contaminated by bitterness.

And now Harry had returned. He was not lost. He had stumbled out of the green flames into Snape's arms like some faerie dream-child, or the Ghost of Past Regrets, and Snape had been too stunned to react. He'd held him, for a moment, in a daze, while expressions of surprise, relief, joy and an unwonted anguish he could not explain had jostled in his brain, overlapping, blocking, cancelling each other out, and, in the end, he had said almost nothing. What must the boy have thought?

He knew he should be happy, but he felt numb. Numb and tired. Even when he was ill in the Hospital Wing he couldn't remember ever feeling quite so exhausted.

Despite Dumbledore's confident prediction of a good rest, Snape had hardly slept the previous night. The damaged, broken nights, scarred by nightmares, had become a habit. However much he longed for that plain, peaceful oblivion, it remained elusive. He'd lain awake, shifting restlessly, the tension in his muscles mocking all attempts at relaxation. The 'Mark' throbbed continually these days, making it impossible to find a comfortable position, waking him with a pulse of pain if he leaned on his arm in the night - it was as though the Dark Lord had him on a permanently open channel, on 'standby', expecting at any moment to be summoned, or worse.

Eventually he had slipped into a shallow doze, but had woken early, before sunrise, feeling heavy, unrested and curiously empty - as if a Dementor had tried to kiss him goodnight. No amount of coffee was going to save him from himself this morning. Even getting out of bed, getting up, had required a superhuman effort - his standard, brisk routine was too ambitious today, too demanding, beyond him, unimaginable: the half-remembered practice of a fictional character in a fantasy life where love did not exist. He barely had the strength to move, let alone organise lessons or motivate a class. He doubted whether he even had the energy to get angry. Perhaps he was ill again? No, he didn't feel ill as such; just not exactly _well_, not himself. He felt as if he had been slipped a dose of _'Slothful Syrup'_, his senses dulled, reflexes unresponsive; as though he were trying to write with the feathered end of a quill, dipped in tar. He had woken to a world with the dials tuned down, muffled and monochrome.

Dumbledore had guessed. Was it then that obvious? Snape squirmed inwardly to think that his wellbeing might be a subject for staff gossip. The old man meant well, but Snape could do without pity from the likes of Lupin, or even the sensible but patronising advice from that tutting Pomfrey woman. The headmaster had suggested that Snape take a break; he had revised the timetable, had virtually signed him off on compulsory sick-leave. Who could blame him? He had a school to run. After yesterday's outrageous performance, Dumbledore had grounds for instant dismissal. If any of the parents should ever get to hear of it! Snape trawled through what he could remember of the Ravenclaw fiasco in his mind. He knew he should be feeling mortified; that his disgraceful conduct would be scrutinised and censured in the staffroom, ridiculed by the students - but today he was numbed to the point of indifference.

Today he was divorced from that other flawed Snape who had allowed raw emotion to pollute his principles. He didn't feel like the same man. Today that rawness was deadened: he was experiencing it second-hand, vicariously. A toughened glass detachment had crystallised around him in the night, distancing him from those feelings. Today he felt separate, cut-off, an observer. The glass encased him. People could tap on it, mouth words at him but they couldn't touch him. They couldn't see the barrier, but they could feel it if they came too close: it was sheer, smooth and cold. He was under an _'Impervius'_ that deflected not only rain, but sound and warmth and colour and human contact.

Since the 'cellar', really, he had felt his fortifications weakening, sliding downhill in an inexorable decline. It was not the torture _per se_ that had loosened the keystone of his defences (though that had been bad enough; no, physical abuse he could withstand; that was a straightforward choice: endure or die) - but the acknowledgement, after all those years of denial, of his relationship to Harry. Once that was exposed, the rest followed in a landslide: his parents, the Death Eaters, Lily… They had all been walled-up for so long, and now they were set free, clamouring for attention, bombarding him with feelings he had thought barricaded for good.

Being so sick hadn't helped matters, he thought with jaded disgust, not forgiving himself for any frailty - it had taken him far too long to get on top of that - was he getting old? Not old, he sneered, just _weak_ - and weakness leads to error. Error and vulnerability. To what else could he attribute that shameful impulse to confess his past to his son? For what had he been hoping? Some kind of _absolution_? If Snape was tough on others, he was even less forgiving when it came to his own lapses. He evaluated the events of the past fortnight: the repeated interrogations, the questionings and Detention - they could have come at a better time. Yet he'd been up before the Aurors before and survived - why should this time be any different?

No, it was the boy, with his expectations, his uncertainties, his _needs_, and that tentative offer of trust and affection - so readily withdrawn - that had sent Snape spiralling down an emotional drain, until he was knee-deep, splashing in a gutter of swirling sentiments, after years of keeping his boots dry.

More than once over the past couple of weeks, he had felt himself slipping into that ditch, finding it an ever-increasing challenge to maintain the fabled, cool self-possession on which was based his reputation as the heartless Head of Slytherin. His temper had been the first symptom. In the normal course of events, he allowed himself to shout at the students - they were fair game; they'd feel short-changed if he didn't - but with adults he usually found sarcasm to be his sharpest weapon. However…

That fat Muggle chump, Lardon, had been the first hapless scapegoat. He had borne the brunt of Snape's vexation with Fudge and Ministerial bureaucracy. Lupin, too, had come in for more than his share of verbal abuse. The man was so thoroughly good-natured, and he bore his regular affliction with such good-humoured resignation, that he incensed Snape beyond measure. And his relationship with Harry was so natural and easy-going - Snape couldn't pretend he wasn't jealous. Jealous of the werewolf! He had watched them together, chatting, joking, physically relaxed in each other's company and he, Snape, had felt inadequate. He resented that feeling.

Fits of anger were one thing, but the other end of the scale was more humiliating. How many times had he made a fool of himself now, in front of that child? Thank Merlin Harry had been unconscious when he found him in the Tower! And the pitiful exhibition he'd made of himself over those two Potions! He wouldn't always have the excuse of illness, injury or exhaustion to hide the fact that, where Harry was concerned, he was emotionally exposed - raw and peeled. The parings of his proverbial 'distance' lay brown and curling on the ground at his feet, plain to see for anyone who knew where to look.

The Granger girl was observant, Snape reflected. He had seen her in Potions, a self-appointed umpire in the war of one-upmanship between Harry and Malfoy. He had seen her sitting at her desk, monitoring their behaviour, watching them with that irritating, _female_ superiority. Occasionally he had the suspicion that she was watching him too, quietly judgemental.

Snape dropped his head into his hands. He rested for a minute, the 'heels' of his palms pressed against his aching eyes, blotting out the light. The warm blackness was an undemanding refuge, but it couldn't shield him from the embarrassing truth: Granger had noticed him struggling to keep control. That evening in the Potions lab, for instance: it had wounded him to realise that Harry felt so hostile about the ghostly attack in the Tower and about his attempts to help. Didn't he feel bad enough about it already? That his own _negligence_ had put the boy at risk, his own arrogance and inexperience? He had assumed that he would command unquestioning obedience, that Harry would automatically do as he was told. Because his father said so. A near fatal assumption. How long had he been a teacher? Should he not have known better? Since when had Potter had a reputation for respecting the rules? School rules or 'home' rules? And parental authority cannot be enforced with the threat of Detention…

And that it had been his own mother who… It pained Snape, even now, to think about her. For years he had lived with the guilt of her passing, had single-handedly born the secret burden of her affliction, her restless return. It had not been easy. And now this…

He had not been prepared for the scorn in Harry's eyes. Snape was not given to making friendly overtures; he'd had to steel himself to overcome his natural reticence. It sounds feeble, he thought, impatient with himself, but offering that child a pot of balm had been more stressful than infiltrating a Death Eater meeting. And the symbolism was lost on the boy; he'd have preferred a bag of Cauldron cakes! What had been his reward? Rejection. A categorical rebuff. And it had hurt. Acutely. More than he would ever admit; more than he would have imagined possible.

Harry's contempt had shocked him with a physical _pang_. He'd barely been able to conceal it. And Granger had noticed. He'd bluffed his way through, of course, praising her potion, diverting attention, but he'd been only too aware of the sympathy in her eyes. He'd dismissed them both rather abruptly, as he recalled - he was afraid that at any moment Hermione's instincts might have compelled her to say something _kind_; and he knew that at that moment his emotions were dangerously close to the surface. (He blamed it on the Firewhisky - he should never have had that second glass.) And he'd been aware of another shameful impulse - why was his existence nowadays so prone to _impulses_- to justify himself to her, to explain, to accept her sympathy. That came perilously close to allowing himself to be _comforted_. It didn't bear thinking about. He might have lost it completely. In front of a student! What was happening to him?

He found himself wondering how much Granger knew about him. She certainly seemed to view him with a deeper understanding (and less trepidation!) than the other pupils. She and Harry were close friends - surely the boy would have confided in her? He wasn't even sure though, whether the two of them were what seemed to be referred to as 'an item'. Harry might find her attractive. Snape had never considered her in that light; to him she was more the vehicle for a receptive, promising mind. The boy could do worse - she was an intelligent girl.

Sometimes she even reminded him of Lily, not so much in her looks - though the child, now he came to think of it, was less gawky than she used to be (something different about the teeth?) - but in that very intelligence, in her methods of problem solving, her grasp of complex concepts, her attention to detail, the way she challenged assumptions, and was not afraid to argue her point. That was refreshing, stimulating even. It could be downright provocative too, the assertive way she looked at him…

He pulled himself up short, ashamed at the direction his thoughts were drifting. _Get a grip on yourself, Snape; don't be absurd, man_.

There was a knock at the office door.

With a sigh Snape made an effort to drag himself clear of the protective 'glass'. The argument with Lupin had all but exhausted his reserves. If he could just keep up the formidable façade for a while longer, then he would make his escape…

"Enter."

Harry came, rather hesitantly, through the door. And Hermione.

Snape was by then bending over a large, black, leather portmanteau, apparently clicking the clasps into place. He stood up.

"Ah, Harry, an opportune visit. You have saved me the trouble of coming to find you."

He regarded the boy, bracing himself for an angsty outburst, hoping he had the resources to cope. But Harry avoided his eyes and, in an equally measured tone, said,

"Madam Pomfrey told us you were going away. I've just come to say goodbye."

He held out his hand and Snape shook it formally.

Hermione wanted to shake them both. For goodness' sake, she thought, just hug each other and be done with it!

"Professor Lupin has agreed to act _in loco parentis_, so if you have any problems while I am away, address them to him," Snape instructed, striving to keep the exchange on a purely business-like footing.

"Yes, Sir. Well, goodbye, Sir."

Turning rather quickly, Harry retraced his steps to the door, signalling to Hermione that it was time to go. Instead of following him immediately, Hermione approached Snape and looked up at him, her eyes soft with concern. She hated to see anyone suffering, even Snape.

"Look after yourself, Sir," she said gently. Then she too left the room. Watching her go, Snape nodded, suddenly too choked to speak.

X X X

"See? I said it'd be OK," said Harry. "All that fuss for nothing! You and Remus are a pair of drama queens. I thought I behaved admirably."

Remus, who had been loitering in the corridor, waiting for them to emerge, joined them. The sheaf of lesson plans was looking extremely dog-eared and curly, as though it had been rolled and unrolled many times in the last few minutes.

"Well?" he asked.

Hermione silently shook her head.

"Seemed fine to me," said Harry calmly. "Look, we need to get back to class - we've got Professor McGonagall next, and I'm probably not her favourite person right now. I still haven't finished the Cinderella assignment. I'll come and see you later, Remus, and tell you about Sirius and everything. Coming Hermione?"

"In a minute." As Harry raced off towards the stairs, she turned to Lupin. "That was hopeless. We didn't even get to ask him where he's going. And now Harry's behaving like an idiot - pretending it's perfectly alright if Snape disappears off without a word. He's pig-sick about it really, but he won't say. There must be _something_ we can do. I'm going to talk to Professor Dumbledore."

Seeing the determination in her face, Remus knew there was no point in objecting. He admired her decisiveness.

"I'll try and join you. But I must deliver these lesson plans first, or Snape'll Hex me into a Hog's apple!"

As Hermione plodded her way up the flights of steps, heading for Dumbledore's office, she mused over the scene of impeccable reserve and restraint she had just witnessed. And she realised that Harry and Snape had not been the only ones being less than honest about their feelings…

X X X

Dumbledore was looking a little wild and whiskery this morning, as though he had forgotten to comb his beard, and he had bird seed in his hair, but he greeted her warmly and waggled his wand to shift a pile of clutter and make space for her sit down.

"Well, well, it's lucky I am not a betting man, Miss Granger, otherwise I would have lost my Galleons. I was counting on a deputation - yourself and Harry was the favoured combination; possibly Harry alone, or, as a bit of a wild card, Remus on his own. But, I confess, I would not have bet on your making this a solo mission.

"I was, in any case, rather expecting Harry to come and see me to explain his little 'adventure'… I am assuming you, however, wish to discuss Professor Snape?"

Hermione nodded, slightly deflated by Dumbledore's omniscience.

"Harry did say he'd come once lessons were over," she lied, covering for him. Then, not to be diverted, she pursued her crusade.

"I don't think you should be sending Professor Snape on this 'project', Sir," she stated bluntly. "I don't think he's... Can't one of the other teachers go instead? Or is it specific to Potions? Can't it wait? Have you seen him today, Sir? Don't you think he - "

"Slow down, Miss Granger! Such a fusillade of questions! Your altruism does you credit. Allow me to put your mind at ease. In the first place, yes, I am aware that the last few days have put Severus under a certain amount of strain… You frown, Miss Granger, do you disagree? You would prefer me to rephrase that? Ahem, shall we say 'under an intolerable strain'…? Better? …and that he is at the moment… shall we call it 'overtired'? I have already suggested, my girl, that he spends some time alone at his home, resting. The 'project', as you call it, is in the nature of a red-herring, a tactful disguise, something of a _'trompe-l'oeil'_ as Severus might say, a diversion - rather akin to my, er, woollen socks…"

"Oh, I see." She wasn't sure that she understood all of the headmaster's meandering allusions, but she got the gist. Her relief must have shown on her face for Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he motioned her to a chair.

"I see that meets with your approval. Perhaps you might humour an old man's curiosity and tell me why it is yourself and not Harry who has come to upbraid me on my treatment of my staff."

Hermione was still annoyed at Harry's insensitivity towards Snape; she didn't bother to defend him again.

"Harry was too concerned about being cool, and doing the 'right thing', and he didn't notice anything wrong. Professor Lupin warned him not to over-react - to make things easier - and he was so focussed on that, he was oblivious to everything else," she replied. Perhaps she had been too harsh on him. She went on: "He's been trying his best, Sir, he really has; and I know he does want to get on with Professor Snape, Sir - I think they're actually a lot closer than people realise; they just don't show it. Neither of them. They're both so pig-headed!"

Dumbledore was contemplating her with amusement.

"_She damns with faint praise…_ You do seem to have hit upon the crux of the issue, Miss Granger. It is a case not so much of personalities clashing but over-lapping. Once Severus is feeling a little more resilient, I'm sure he will put young Harry firmly in his place. You must appreciate that the paternal role is uncharted territory for Severus; his own parents were hardly what one might describe as ideal role models… Ahem, well, that's as may be, my dear…"

Hermione left this tempting crumb of information where it fell; she could peck it up later. Dumbledore resumed:

"Maintaining a close relationship is a new experience for both Severus and Harry - you can't expect them to become experts overnight. They'll sort themselves out; don't you fret."

Hermione was still worried.

"Sir, about Professor Snape - he not just _tired_ though, is he, Sir? Will he be alright on his own? Don't you think there should be someone there with him?"

Dumbledore studied her acutely, then asked:

"And who, Miss Granger, would you suggest?"

Hermione pondered. That was more difficult to answer than she would have imagined. She ran through a list of staff and people who knew Snape and drew a blank. She didn't know if he had any friends - he was such an unknown quantity - but she couldn't think of anyone who would be prepared to look after him who would not, in the process, irritate him to distraction. Not that he would ever agree to being 'looked after' anyway. Dumbledore himself was about the only person, or:

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" she ventured.

"A most astute proposal. Capital thinking, my dear!" The headmaster gave a chuckle, clearly diverted by the idea of teaming the Potions master with the big, laid-back, confidently charismatic Auror. "There is, I believe, a certain mutual, professional respect between Mr Shacklebolt and Severus. But Kingsley, I fear, is fully engaged with his work at the Ministry.

"I cannot help but notice, Miss Granger, that you did not suggest yourself or Harry."

Hermione felt herself blushing. Of course she would go willingly if she didn't think that Snape would see her as a silly nuisance. She tried to give a sensible reply, though she could hear herself gabbling:

"Well, it's term time, Sir, and Harry's got a lot to catch up on already. And he and Professor Snape always argue so much - look what happened last time- and I couldn't very well go on my own…" _However much I might like to._

"Very proper. A well-considered response, Miss Granger," Dumbledore commended her. "It appears that, for the time being, we shall have to leave Severus to the questionable ministrations of Quigley…"

Hermione left the meeting shortly afterwards, only partially reassured.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: MALFOY'S MOTIVE. Will Snape agree to Draco's proposal?**


	4. Malfoy's Motive

**A/N: The refs here to Snape's mother and Fudge will mean more if you have read the earlier stories, but I have tried to explain enough so that it still makes sense...**

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 4 : MALFOY'S MOTIVE**

One week later

Friday13th November

Hogwarts

"Hey, Potter! Like father like son, eh? Glad to see it's not just _criminality_ that runs in your family!"

"Ignore him, he's a prick," muttered Ron, scowling and urging Harry on. But Malfoy's mocking drawl dogged them:

"Now it's _insanity_ too…!"

Harry wheeled angrily, in time to catch Draco flicking his lips, bubbling and inanely gibbering, entertaining his troupe. Harry took a deep breath and tried to rise above it. Malfoy was having fun:

"But what can you expect? We all know Potter's a head-case, and now Snape's cracked-up too. From the look of him, it's 'next stop - St Mungo's ', if you ask me."

"We didn't."

"And all this time I've been thinking that the lunacy had _skipped a generation…_ Obviously I was mistaken. Oh, but we understand." Here Malfoy feigned a sugary sincerity. "Having you for a son is enough to drive anyone mad! Couldn't he stand seeing your ugly mug in class every day then? Tell me, _frankly_, Potter, what's he done - taken _French_ leave…?"

"Leave it out, Malfoy," Harry warned.

"Or what?" the Slytherin sneered, his thin lips curling upwards with malicious enjoyment. "What're you going to do to me? Turn me into a _frog_? A _grenouille_? Ooh-la-la!"

The snide implication sickened Harry. Malfoy had just come back from his week's Suspension. He had been bailed from the Ministry by his relatives: it was inevitable that some of his family would have known about Snape's parents. Their deaths must have made headline news at the time; there may have been gossip, rumours…

It was not a particularly sensitive subject as far as Harry was concerned, except in as much as it affected Snape. He knew the man would hate his mother's condition to be the topic of crude schoolboy humour and crass speculation.

"Ignore him," Ron repeated, "He's a prat. All mouth and no magic. C'mon."

A week away had done nothing to lessen Malfoy's popularity amongst his own species. The Slytherins fluttered round him, butterflies on a Buddleia bush, sipping his insults like nectar, a flap of Fritillaries with their White Admiral. Harry imagined himself snapping off the glossy, black and white wings and feeding the helpless body to one of the giant pike in the lake…

"Oh, Potter!" Draco had found a productive vein and he couldn't resist mining it. "What did you have for breakfast? _French_ toast?"

"What the hell's he on about?" asked Ron, bemused. "Sounds like he's the one who's off his rocker."

"Been giving Granger any lessons in _French_ kissing?" called Malfoy, amidst shrieks of laughter from the fawners.

Hermione paled in fury.

"Right!" she stormed. "I'm going to Hex that toe-rag till he begs for mercy! I know just the spell for him! Let go of me, Harry."

But Harry held onto her robe.

"Please, Hermione, don't. Let it drop. I don't want to make a big thing out of this. Do what Ron says - ignore him. Look - " He felt he owed them some kind of explanation. "He's trying to wind me up - it's because he's found out that Snape's mother was French."

"Is that all?" asked Ron, disappointed; he'd been hoping for something far more titillating.

"And she had some kind of a _break-down_…"

No one had yet mentioned that word in connection with Snape, and Harry now avoided looking at Hermione directly, lest, in meeting her gaze, he should find some silent corroboration of his fears for his father.

"He said something just now…" She sounded puzzled, piecing together a riddle. "Hold on a tic." She dashed back towards the milling butterfly bush.

"Malfoy!" she called breathlessly. "I've got to ask you something."

"If you need help with your homework, Granger, I do charge a consultancy fee. You couldn't afford me. Although a spot of gratuitous grovelling might do the trick. We like to see that you Mudbloods know your place…" He threw out the languid, patronising dart, targeting her weak spot and scoring a bulls-eye. She tossed it straight back:

"Just remind me, Malfoy, I've forgotten - is it Crabbe who's the new Quidditch captain, or Goyle? Now that you've been banned? It'll be a shame to see that expensive new Firebolt sitting on the broom-rack going mouldy… OK, touché? I'm not here to score points. When you were talking about Snape just now, you said, _"From the look of him…"._ Are you saying you've seen him? When? How was he?"

Malfoy's smirk darkened for a second, then reverted to insouciance.

"He looked like shit," he said. "I told him so."

X X X

Cornelius Fudge had, at his wife's instigation, recently attended a seminar on _Rehabilitation Strategies for Juvenile Offenders_. He had spent most of the morning and afternoon sessions doodling on his blotter: he was attempting to rework the Course title to spell the acronym _SORRY_ which had, he firmly believed, a succinct, sincere, apologetic, wholly appropriate ring to it (how he loved all these zippy buzz-words, abbreviations and mnemonics), but the nearest he could get was _Strategic Opportunities for the Rehabilitation and Re-integration of Yobs_. Even he appreciated that this might offend in certain quarters. Oh well, Advertising's loss was the Ministry's gain, he told himself, dunking a biscuit and sucking it cheerfully.

He had, however, emerged at the end of the day with two principles lodged in his brain. The first he dubbed '_Mama culpa'_ i.e. everything is _always_ the fault of the mother. It wasn't a rehabilitation strategy in the purest sense, except in that it is useful and comforting to have someone else to blame.

The second principle was what the lecturer referred to, at tortuous length, it seemed to Fudge who was by now ready for coffee and cake, as _'Victim and Offender Interaction in a Controlled Environment'_. Both parties, it appeared, were supposed to meet and discuss their differences until they reached a mutual understanding, after which everyone lived happily ever after... Hmm, _VOICE_, Fudge had doodled, half-listening, not bad; could be shorter, more punchy; these people are badly in need of a copywriter. He played with the initials, feeling a change of career coming on, and came up proudly with _'Meet The Victim' - MTV_. It rang a bell. His colleague, the Minister for Muggle Affairs, who had accompanied him that day, had been less than enthusiastic, mumbling some concerns about copyright conflict and trademark registration.

The idea appealed to Fudge's liberal and financial inclinations. Why spend thousands of Galleons detaining delinquent wizards and forcing them to attend classes in _Magical Ethics_ and _Socially-acceptable Spell-work_ when, it seemed, a few conversations with their (hopefully coherent) victims was the direct route to contrition, conversion and a re-awakened social conscience?

He had, in all honesty, expected more opposition from young Mr Malfoy - that boy was a 'piece of work' if ever he saw one: attitude underpinned by 'old' money; a dangerous combination. But, much to his surprise, when Fudge had suggested trying out the VOICE principle in the case of Draco and Snape, the boy had co-operated fully, with the support of his guardians (in the unfortunate absence of his father). It was still unclear to Fudge how Lucius, such an influential pillar of the wizard community, had got himself mixed-up in that unpleasant business last summer. If the case ever went to Appeal, he, Fudge, would be strongly in favour of a retrial.

X X X

(Flashback)

Thursday 12th November

Snape Cottage

"Was all that cloak and dagger stuff strictly necessary, Sir?" whined Malfoy, his mud-laden shoes clumping like trolls' boots on the door mat, droplets of rain dripping off his reddened nose and trickling down his cheeks, pink from exertion, into his collar. He pushed back his hood, blinking water off pale eye-lashes.

"Is it raining? I hadn't noticed," said Snape flatly, blocking the entrance and surveying the drenched, muddy teenager with distaste.

"Well, can I come in or not? It's perishing out here, and, in case you hadn't noticed that either, I'm soaked," Malfoy demanded.

"Clean yourself up before you do. You_ should _know the spell," said Snape, walking heavily back into the cottage, leaving Draco dripping on the threshold.

The boy stared after the Potions master doubtfully. The man seemed different somehow: slower, less threatening. It was odd. Perhaps he had been asleep, Draco reasoned, when he knocked. After all, what else would there be to do in this dreary hole of a place, miles from anywhere, in the middle of a wet afternoon in November?

"_Purjo! Vestilavio! Scurgio!"_ Malfoy hadn't much experience with Cleansing Charms - he left all that kind of thing to the house elves. Isn't that what they were for? "_Purgify! Scourgivest! Clenzio_!" None of the spells was working, though something seemed to be agitating the fibres of his trousers, making them feel scratchy and uncomfortable. _Didn't this guy have a house elf at all,_ Malfoy wondered condescendingly. _Call himself a Pureblood! Huh! What did he do for a butler?_

From the sitting room Snape's voice pronounced the spell:

"_Vestimenta purgo!"_ The dirt lifted from the soiled clothes; the itching ceased.

Feeling spruce and slick again, Malfoy limbered up with a little shake of his shoulders; he flicked his fringe, flexed his fingers and strolled after Snape. The Potions master had taken up his position in the low armchair by the fire. He ignored Malfoy's entrance.

_Oh, so that's how he wants to play it?_ The simple austerity of the surroundings gave Draco a sense of superiority; he saw no earthly merit in asceticism. Keeping one eye on the professor, he moved further into the room with a confident swagger, looking for something to pick on. There was little to attract his attention: no pictures on the walls, no photographs, the furniture plain and functional. _Holy Merlin! Was the man a monk, or what? It's not as though he's a pauper - they say he's got some enormous mansion somewhere near here, just going to rack and ruin, and yet he chooses to live in this flea-pit. What a loser! Where's his self-respect?_

Malfoy crossed to a tall cupboard and picked up an empty, non-descript, coarse glass decanter. He removed the stopper and, insolently, sniffed it. Firewhisky. Next he sauntered over to the bookcase and, ostentatiously, pulled a volume from the top shelf, dusting it with exaggerated fastidiousness, and skimming the pages carelessly.

Still Snape did not respond. His indifference piqued Malfoy. He strode over to the sitting professor, looking down on him in a reversal of their standard roles, then smiled to himself, conscious again of that surge of superiority.

Snape at last acknowledged him.

"Say what Fudge requires you to say, Draco, and then be so good as to leave," he said in a grey voice.

Malfoy felt he had the advantage.

"Do you think I've walked for miles in the pouring rain, across a ploughed field, just to trot out some pretty speech to please those do-gooding twats at the Ministry?"

"I had assumed not."

Though, without the official Ministerial owl instructing Snape to allow access, Malfoy would never have got within a mile of Snape Cottage.

"Talk about a 'circuitous route'! What the hell was all that for anyway, Sir? _'Here's a password; follow the owl'_ - he quoted Snape's message which had greeted him on the outskirts of the estate. Doesn't your bloody owl _know_ its way home? Take my advice and get a crow next time!"

"Indeed. _Next time_ I shall cancel the wards and leave the gate open, shall I? Invite your friends! Don't be naïve, boy!"

It was a fairly typical Snape rejoinder, but the tone was all wrong: the acid was diluted. There was something 'lacking' in Snape today - he seemed lethargic, almost sedated. It was as if he had been tailed by a Pogrebin. Draco was unnerved. He glanced uneasily round the room, half-expecting to see the shiny, stone-shaped form of the little demon crouching in a corner. There was nothing except a large, brownish-grey, breathing boulder on one side of the fire-place. Draco decided to say his piece and go.

"They could be _your_ friends again, Sir…"

Snape looked up dully.

"Don't waste your breath, Malfoy. Get out."

"But you could do it, Sir. With all your contacts, and being such a potions expert, and your spying experience… You'd be able to find a way."

"No, Draco. No. I will not help your father escape. I will play no part in planning a breakout from Azkaban. Is that clear enough for you?"

Malfoy scowled. They were not in school now; normal rules did not apply. He perched on the arm of the other chair and leaned towards Snape, acting the aggressor.

"You _owe_ me, Sir," he hissed. "Do you, for one insane minute, think that I saved your skin _out of the goodness of my heart_? Without my evidence you'd have gone down, for sure. You'd have got years for poisoning those fat Muggles. Look at the state of you - you wouldn't have lasted a week this time in Azkaban. I saved you, and now **_you owe me_**."

Rodent-like, the boy's lips had drawn back in a snarl over his sharp, regular teeth. Snape had learned about Draco's 'Ferret' nickname - in the days when little details mattered, when he had made it his business to acquaint himself with minutiae. Now, as the blond locks dangled only inches from his face, it occurred to him that 'Ermine' might be a better name. Not that he cared one way or the other.

"Yes, I thought it unlikely that you had tapped a wellspring of inner nobility - that would have been too much to hope for. Stick to your Slytherin principles. Don't betray them on my account! Am I to understand that you expect me to feel _indebted_ to you for merely _telling the truth_? For refuting your earlier falsehoods? Oh Merlin, is this the world we are striving to defend? Grow up, Draco. Go home," Snape said wearily.

"I could have twenty Death Eaters on your doorstep in under an hour!" Malfoy blustered.

But Snape called his bluff.

"Oh, save it for someone who gives a damn!" he muttered, listlessly, with a deep sigh. His attention flagged and he stared ahead of him, his eyes dimly focussed, looking _through_ Malfoy as though scarcely aware of his continued presence in the room.

Malfoy stood up and strutted towards the door, determined at least to make an impressive exit:

"My father shall hear about this!" he threatened.

Snape continued to stare blankly into space, too tired to speak. Malfoy stopped half-way across the room and pivoted round, eyeing him uncertainly.

"Sir? Do you want me to fetch someone? I could send an owl for you…" he offered tentatively.

Snape shook his head; a minimal movement.

"Have it your own way." Malfoy wasn't going to push it. "But, Sir, you look like shit."

Trudging back through the muddy field, following the owl, Draco reflected that he had just seriously undermined his image.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: DESPERATE MEASURES. Snape's struggle with the 'Dark Dragon'.**


	5. Desperate Measures

A/N: To Duj. Yes, well, it did cross my mind to have a supervisor accompany Malfoy, but I decided to use a bit of artistic licence and let Malfoy come on his own. Fudge is a twit anyway, so I didn't mind if he came across as even more incompetent than usual. Might be fun, though, to have a Snape Vs Ministry do-gooder confrontation… Will think about that for re-writes.

On to chapter 5... Snape finally reaches his nadir in this one.

BTW. If you think Eamon is a funny name for a snake, it harks back to 'Snape's Confession' and my Alan Rickman in-jokes (which amuse only me, I'm sure). He played Eamon de Valera in the film 'Michael Collins'. And very nicely too! Sorry - I'm a sad case. I can't help it.

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM**

**By Bellegeste**

**CHAPTER 5 : DESPERATE MEASURES**

(Flashback)

Thursday 12th / Friday 13th

The Dark Mark burned fiercely that night. Snape lay awake, clutching his arm, warding off each fresh onslaught of pain, glad that there was no one else in the house to hear him gasp out loud as Voldemort's displeasure seared through him in excruciating waves, each more vicious than the last. The Dark Lord was not happy that his young envoy had failed in his mission.

Snape was disappointed in Malfoy. When he had first learned that the boy had been instrumental in his release, that he had voluntarily come forward with a confession, he had, for a few unguarded moments, felt a rush of gratitude towards his pupil. Then Slytherin suspicion had seeded its pernicious doubts… Malfoy's declaration today had come as no surprise. In fact, Snape admitted ruefully, it would have been more of a surprise if Malfoy had **not** had an ulterior motive.

Nonetheless, it was disappointing. Draco was a bright boy - he had achieved very creditable results in his OWLS and, with a little application, would do well in his NEWTs. With his background and contacts, and those qualifications, his future was assured. And yet, what future could he have when his family was already channelling him towards corruption and moral decline: the route towards the taking of the 'Mark' and following in the footsteps of his father?

Today, even as Draco was making his 'pitch', Snape could detect the external forces applying pressure. _'We can turn this situation to our advantage…' _He could almost hear them saying it. And Draco had acquiesced. The boy had many Slytherin qualities - intelligence, guile, ambition, determination, ruthlessness - but he lacked _courage_. _Unlike Harry…_

Perhaps Snape should have tried to speak to him today, while he had the opportunity, tried to appeal to his conscience, to any vestige of better nature that, Snape wanted to believe, still resided within Draco, albeit deeply buried? Surely as the child's mentor, that was his duty? As his Slytherin Head of House, was that not part of his remit? He'd thought about it, but he couldn't summon the energy. Yet, thought Snape - his body suddenly going rigid as the next agonising wave crashed over him; he forced himself, against instinct, to breathe through the pain - who was he to give advice? What sort of a pitiful role model was he? Then again, was he not, in his current condition, the best possible argument _against_ becoming a Death Eater? Draco could not aspire to _this_!

Dark night-thoughts picked a lonely, unprotected path through the barren moonscape of his mind. What did he have to show for his life? Nothing! Disillusion and emptiness. A life of distrust and deception; or a life of perpetual fear, heading the Dark Lord's death list, hiding here as a virtual recluse; or sheltering at Hogwarts, teaching generations of faceless children who all detested him so much they couldn't wait to drop Potions; a life of solitude, with nothing but a non-existent relationship and a sixteen year old chasm of regret to look back on… Nothing, until Harry…

Harry, a child who had hated him enough to want to kill him. Who now, even if he no longer hated him, did not yet trust him enough to tell him so. A child? No, a boy, almost a grown man now, who scarcely needed him any more.

And what was he, Snape? An ineffectual, despicable nonentity, wallowing in his own mediocrity. For the love of Merlin! Was this him, Severus Snape talking? What wasthis maudlinself-pity? It was sickening. He couldn't go on like this. He'd have to pull himself together - take a Potion even, if that was the only way. He'd brew something up, later… Or tomorrow. If only he weren't so tired… Maybe…

The inertia had crept up on him slowly over the last couple of weeks at school, insidiously, before launching its final ambush. Throughout his arrest, throughout the searching for Harry he had held himself together, just, but there had been lapses - in concentration, in memory. He had found himself referring to text books, checking potion recipes, reminding himself of ingredients and the exact brewing sequences of methods he should have known by heart; he had lost the thread of a dictation in mid-flow and had struggled to salvage the sentence, before the gleeful derision of the Slytherin third years; terminology that he had used daily for over twenty years, suddenly eluded him; he had started to rely on lists…

It was not only his memory that was impaired: his skills were deteriorating too. How else could Draco have deceived his _'Legilimens'_ so easily? How could he have let that happen? He felt foolish to have been hoodwinked by a sub-NEWT level ruse. It was ignominious in the extreme. And were his Occlumency abilities equally damaged? They had been under heavy attack, pitted by the emotional strafing of recent days.

How could he explain away that contemptible scene in the Ravenclaw lesson? After the initial numbness had worn off, mortification had set in with a vengeance. Would Dumbledore authorise a mass 'memory modification', he wondered? How else could he ever hope to teach again? To stand in front of those children with any semblance of dignity? Intimidation would only work so far… Did he even _want_ to return to teaching?

When he had first Floo-ed back to his Cottage, he had carried out one resolve: to destroy any alcohol on the premises, to remove temptation. Quig had shuffled from laboratory to sitting room to kitchen, collecting an armful of bottles: Firewhisky, Absinthe, Schnapps, Cognac. Snape had not seen the elf for three days…

…Days in which, despite the exhaustion, he could not relax. That plate-glass shell presented an impervious, deflective shield between himself and the outside world; but behind it and within it, he huddled like a hermit crab, drawn in upon himself, yet soft-skinned, his nerves taut to breaking point, discordant, twanging with a raw resonance that might, at any moment, crack the glass.

Sometimes an angry bubble of negative energy sent him pacing round the Cottage in agitation; or bowled him outside where he would stride off into the dank, November day, walking without purpose or direction; walking until the compulsive rhythm of his steps became an end in itself, filling the vacuum of his solitude; walking until the bubble burst and he found himself wandering cold and dejected, miles from home, very tired, very alone.

Wizards would normally subdue the 'dark dragon' with a simple Cheering Charm. Depression had been stalking Snape for days, singeing the hem of his cloak with its pools of black fire. But Snape, self-destructively perverse, chilled in the deep shade of its outstretched wings and, as the grey smoke rolled from the nostrils of the beast, he allowed himself to be enveloped in its gloom-laden pall; he inhaled and felt himself slowly suffocating.

And then the inertia struck. He had felt it clamping itself to his back, pressing on his shoulders like a laden pack, pulling him downwards. For days now it had been tightening the straps, testing the tension on the belts and buckles, checking the clips. One day he had woken to find the pockets of the pack weighted down with heavy crystals. He had no strength to get free and the rocks dragged him under, sinking slowly through the cold, murky fathoms to the bottom. In the depths of apathy, Snape had succumbed and lay unresisting, waiting for the rock salt to dissolve…

Now, at last, he slept. But it was a thick, black, stifling sleep, that clogged his brain and coated him in its dark slick, and when he woke in the mornings he could not think or breathe. Some days he did not get up at all. He lay listening to the muted murmur of the rollers spilling their oily dreams on the shore, and he turned with the tide.

Some mornings he would pick up a book and sit down to read: the afternoon gloom would be calling for candles before he had even finished the first page. Sometimes he slept without knowing. Sometimes he just stared at his wand, twisting it aimlessly between his fingers: it would be so easy to let history repeat itself… Sometimes he woke in his chair to find the day had escaped, the fire burned down to embers, and Quig had draped a rug over his knees…

Quig signalled his silent disapproval and Snape shut his eyes… Quig brought food, and removed it later, uneaten. Quig obediently, loyally replied to Dumbledore's daily owls: '_My master is working'._

All this time Snape had tried not to think about Lily. Why torture himself further? Or, if he did, he remembered her as she had been at school, not the way she had been the last time he saw her - petrified with fear, those green eyes pleading, as eloquently as any words, for her life. He knew she was gone; that, whatever the message in the back of the anthology, _whatever might have been_, she had never truly been his, never known him, never touched him… However many times he read and re-read her note, it would not bring her back. He wished… - but what did it matter what he wished? She was gone, he told himself harshly. He would have to steel himself to forget her all over again.

A week - maybe more, maybe less; Snape had lost count - had passed in the anonymous ebb and flow of days, before the arrival of the Ministerial owl and Draco's visit. Snape had abandoned himself to that greater force, letting exhaustion carry him with the current. He had spent days adrift.

Malfoy didn't know it, but he had seen Snape on a good day - when he was, at least, back on dry land, on the beach. And, when Malfoy departed, his suggestions left their footprints in the sand…

This time Snape had no doubt that Draco was sincere - the strength of his feeling for Lucius, the family bond of duty and affection was tangible beneath the words. Snape had felt a twist of envy: would Harry ever feel that committed to the Snape family - to him? True, Harry had saved him, Apparated him out of the cellar, turned his wand on the Dark Lord. Why had he done that? Snape had never felt able to ask him; the subject was closed, disowned. But he was sure of one thing - Harry had saved him, but he had been motivated by fear or guilt or common humanity. Affection simply had not entered into it. At that time, why would it have done? They'd barely known each other. And, since then, had anything changed?

Snape thought about Malfoy's proposal. It was flattering, he could not deny it: the Death Eaters wanted to enlist his support; they valued his expertise; they _needed_ him. Planning an escape from the wizard prison would be, _as an abstract exercise_, an intriguing intellectual challenge. Snape reviewed the information he knew about Azkaban, which was precious little. There were so many unknown variables, so many details to consider: the structure and intensity of the magical wards guarding the perimeter; access to the building; transport, if Apparation were not possible; manning levels within the prison - were the Dementors still on duty there…?

With a start, Snape realised that he had been pondering the hypothetical problem for over an hour. He felt more alive, more _effective_, than he had done for days…

That Friday morning after Draco's visit he had woken, scarcely rested, but with a fatalistically renewed sense of purpose. His arm was hurting badly, and he was resolved never, ever, to spend another night like that - in thrall to the sadistic ravages of the Dark Lord. He had decided to try something - a dangerous experiment he had mooted for years, but had always deemed too risky. Over the past week, as the ongoing discomfort of the 'Mark' became too intrusive to ignore, Snape had begun to give the possibility more serious consideration, but, until now, he had not had the energy or motivation. Anyway, if the experiment failed and he died, what would it matter? He did not think anyone would much care or even notice.

He would need assistance: Quig would have to help him. Pomfrey was more suitably qualified but, a) she wasn't there and b) she would, no doubt, raise ethical objections. Once that woman factored ethics into the equation, the benefits almost never outweighed the risks. What he had in mind required delicacy and precision. Harry could have helped, had he been there, or Draco even, or Granger. Yes, the girl was easily the most competent of the students: she had a quicker eye, a lighter touch…

_Oh no! You can put a stop to that right now!_ Snape rebuked himself sternly as another inappropriate image glided into his mind: Hermione cradling his arm gently as she applied the venom to the 'Mark', stroking the skin with cool fingers, soothing away the pain…

The venom of the Valera Viper is one of the most toxic poisons on the planet. It causes paralysis in seconds, death in minutes, usually from shock or cardiac arrest as the victim reacts to the unimaginable pain. Even a small quantity may result in necrosis of tissue which, in most cases, leads to gangrene and, for the lucky ones, amputation… Snape was well advised to treat it with caution.

While he was still in the service of Voldemort, it would have been suicidally suspicious for Snape to tamper with the connection: that would have been tantamount to questioning the authority of the Dark Lord. But that was no longer an issue. So far the 'Mark' had defied all magical attempts to remove it - the binding lifetime oath of allegiance was supported by the strongest Dark magic. It had withstood all the counter-spells already tried by Snape and even Dumbledore himself; it deflected magical intervention. Madam Pomfrey had, in the past, used her medi-spells temporarily to block the pain, but sooner or later the stabbing summons always found the chink in the dam.

Snape had resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck with the 'Mark' for life - his life or Voldemort's.

Over the years his experience with Potions had taught him that the interaction of magical and non-magical means can have surprising, unexpected consequences. On a number of occasions, Snape had succeeded with an organic poison or antidote where the magical one had failed. Most wizards were unacquainted with the subtle chemistries at work within the human frame; they didn't need to know - one does not analyse the mechanics of magic. But Snape knew. With his understanding of toxins and anatomy, he had discovered pathways to the brain - mere animal tracks, sometimes - that most spells overlooked.

Now he was contemplating a procedure so fraught with human complications that even he baulked at it. Damage done by Muggle methods could be unpredictably difficult to reverse; it was one of the anomalies that made Snape's specialist branch of Potions so endlessly fascinating, and frustrating. He could not guarantee that Madam Pomfrey, expert Medi-witch and Healer though she was, would be able to save him if anything were to go wrong. There was an antidote, but it had to be administered instantly; any delay and the damage would be irreparable.

The venom would have to be injected, in microscopic amounts, at precisely the right points in and around the 'Mark' to cause sufficient paralysis, at a cellular level, to deaden the pain without resulting in the loss of his arm. It was a clumsy Muggle technique - though sophisticated in their terms - which Snape would never have attempted, had there been a magical alternative. But he felt he had run out of options.

Quig was dubious about the whole business. He was pleased to see Snape looking so much better, but his relief rapidly turned to dismay when Snape outlined his plan, giving the elf perfunctory instructions as to his role in the operation. Quig's emphatic gesticulations of protest were ignored, however, and it was with grave misgiving that the elf followed his master and stomped down the steps to the basement.

Snape had owned the Viper, Eamon, for years. He was an old, placid, friendlysnake that liked nothing better than to bask in the sunshine, stretching out his ink-brushed coils, contentedly waiting for the next dead rat dinner to drop into the cage. He would donate his venom obligingly, regarding it as a fair enough quid pro quo, in return for a safe, stress-free retirement, with no strenuous hunting to tax his waning abilities: his strike and speed were not what they used to be.

Eamon was dozing comfortably when Snape arrived with the collecting flask to milk the venom that he required. He opened a sleepy eye-slit and observed the proceedings, aware that he had to subject himself to this ritual, however unpleasant, and that it would all be over in a few minutes. Although every animal instinct was screaming inside him to defend himself against the coming threat, he knew that Snape was a practised handler, and would subdue him by force if necessary. It was easier to co-operate. He stretched his coils and bared his long fangs helpfully as Snape brought the flask towards his head, and opened his jaws wide. It was then that the snake experienced the sudden jabbing twinge, out of the blue, that blinded all reason; instinct came to the fore. He lunged at the approaching hand.

"Merde!" cried Snape as the deadly fangs sank into his flesh.

**End of Chapter. Next Chapter: DOBBY'S MESSAGE. Will Harry and Hermione be in timeto save Snape?**


	6. Dobby's Message

**A/N: Apologies for the unashamed cliffie at the end of the last chapter. Sometimes a touch of melodrama is too hard to resist. Now, after all that heavy stuff, we have a bit of light relief…**

**Hmm, did I say at the beginning that this was going to be a SS/HG story? Well, I've been working up to it very tentatively. I might even get there in the end. (But nothing too fluffy, I promise.) I'd better get a move on - there's only one more chapter after this one. **

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM **

By Bellegeste

**CHAPTER 6 :DOBBY'S MESSAGE**

Friday 13th

Hogwarts

"You're a twerp, Ron. You don't mean to say you chewed the leaves up _and swallowed them?"_ Hermione was incredulous. "Professor Sprout said quite clearly to 'spit them away' once your fingers started to tingle. Honestly, you never listen. Don't expect any sympathy from me."

Ron's voice was plaintive:

"I thought she said to chew them up and then 'sit and wait'. So I did. I couldn't hear properly. My ears are still ringing from that Mandrake…"

"You and your big feet. If you must kick over the pots, what can you expect? You were lucky Sprouty shoved it back in before it deafened us all."

Professor Sprout, standing in for Snape, had staunchly refused to relinquish her tropically warm potting sheds for the chill of the dungeons, especially now the weather was turning nippy, so Potions lessons had, for the past week, become indistinguishable from Herbology. Today, when they were time-tabled to have Herbology anyway, preceded by double Potions, they would end up spending the entire morning in the greenhouse, sharing with the other class. It was quite like old times, being in a Potions lesson with Ron and Neville again.

At that moment the sliding door scraped to one side and Harry came in from outside, steering two large sacks of Mooncalf dung compost through the opening, levitating them at wand point.

"Brrr! Shut the door quickly - you're letting the heat out!"

Harry let the sacks thud to the floor and he grinned.

"D' you know, these Lumi-leaves are pretty good. Not sure if I want to be luminous, but they don't half keep you warm. There's a frost out there, but my hands are really toasty…"

He held them up for inspection: his fingers had a distinctly orange tinge. Suddenly he did a double-take, looking from his hands to the beacon that was Ron's face and back again. His smile broadened.

"Whoa mate! Looking a tad 'radiant' aren't we?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know," said Ron glumly. "Stupid stuff, if you ask me. Who'd want to glow in the dark anyway?"

"Little kids on their way to school on winter mornings…"

"People lost on mountains?"

"Pot-holers!"

"Hey, Ron! You could get a job as a lighthouse!"

Victims of magical mishaps such as this were fair game, and the rest of the class showed no mercy. So many of them had been the butts of Fred and George's practical jokes over the years that it was payback time if ever a Weasley happened to be on the receiving end.

Neville, who was becoming something of a botanical boffin these days, piped up:

"You do realise, it's not just your skin that goes fluorescent?"

Standing on tip-toe he whispered in Ron's ear; Ron's expression zapped from alarmed to horrified to amused to impressed.

"Wow! Day-glo bogeys!" he exclaimed, his finger already heading towards a nostril…

"We should tell your mother. She'll be delighted," commented Terry Boot dryly. "Ginny's always saying that her mum thinks the sun shines out of your arse - now we can tell her it's true!"

"Very funny - not." The joke was wearing thin. "I feel like that Zirkonian John Doe," muttered Ron. His disgruntled expression was suddenly displaced by wide-eyed alarm and, with a gasp, he clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Don't panic - I cancelled the _Hiccobubblus_ spell, remember?" Hermione, though not exactly contrite, was prepared to go some way towards making amends. "But no one has the foggiest idea what you're on about, Ron. Try running it past us again, this time in conversational Klingon…"

"Must you stoop to his level?" groaned Harry.

"No one understands me? It's Darmok and Jalad at Tenagra!" chirped Ron, oblivious to sarcasm, boldly accelerating to warp nonsense, heading for that final frontier…

"Now you've done it!" said Harry to Hermione, darkly. He turned to Ron:

"If you're still luminescent at bedtime, you can jolly well put a bag over your head," grumbled Harry. "I can't sleep with the light on."

It was a lot more fun than the average Potions lesson.

Just then Professor Sprout returned. She leaned on the door frame, steadying herself while she banged a clod of earth from her boot. Small, squat and plump, hair awry, breathing in short, snorting puffs, she resembled a muddy Shetland pony after a brisk trot.

"Hah!" she panted, noticing Ron. "There's always one! Don't look so tragic, boy - the effect'll wear off in a day or so. Might as well make yourself useful, though. Go and stand over in that gloomy corner of the shed for me, could you? It'll make a change to see what I'm doing while I stack these pots… The rest of you can clear up and go.

"By the way, Potter, have you lost an elf? No? No matter. Thought I heard one just now, shouting for you. Right-Oh, Mr Weasley, onwards and upwards… Let's go to it. Chop-chop. Pots tally-ho!"

With bluff cheeriness and a succession of hearty, senseless phrases, she waddled off, aiming Ron in front of her like a human torch.

"Hey! I've got The Inner Light!" he called to them as he left. "Kapla!"

"Poor old Ron," said Harry.

"It's his own stupid fault." Hermione had reached the limit of her charitable impulses as far as Ron was concerned. "What if those leaves had been poisonous? Well, no, not _poisonous_, otherwise Sprout wouldn't have let us chew them at all. But they could have had some really serious side-effects."

"So lighting up like a Lantern Fish isn't serious?" joked Harry.

"Serves him right for not listening. No, I mean, they could have been hallucinogenic or something - like that stuff Luna gave you. That wasn't exactly harmless, was it?" Hermione insisted.

Since the 'Archway Adventure' (as everybody had begun to call it. Harry was getting a bit sick of every event in his life being tagged with a label: the 'Pensieve Incident', the 'Apparating Escapade', the 'Basilisk Encounter', the 'Flying Ford-Anglia Fiasco'. It made him feel as though his existence was summed up by a series of tabloid titles.) Harry had been avoiding Luna. For one thing, she didn't seem to grasp quite how much trouble she had started with her séances and shamans. He knew that Dumbledore had given her a 'talking to', but it had barely registered amidst the mish-mash of off-beat beliefs and practices in the rag-bag jumble of her mind.

Harry's other reason for staying out of Luna's way was more difficult to quantify. He wasn't sure why, but he found her company unsettling. Not the kookiness - that was OK, if weird - but her forthrightness, the blunt personal questions and comments, the indefinable way she lead him to confront his inner fears and, despite himself, admit to feelings he would not normally acknowledge. It was confusing. She extracted confidences from him, and yet he didn't fully trust her. Sometimes he wondered if the Glogg were not, secretly, some kind of potion to relax his inhibitions. Talking to Luna was disconcerting too: half the time she didn't appear to be listening at all, and then she would hone in on some trivial point. It was as though her view of 'relevance' was esoteric and slightly skewed.

"Amnesia? Cor!" She found this fascinating. "What was that like? Or can't you remember?" She honked a grating laugh. "Perhaps I overdid the Jimson Weed. Next time…"

"Whoa! Wait! Stop. No, hang on, Luna…! There isn't going to be a 'next time'. I'm never doing that again," said Harry. "It was way too scary."

"You're saying you're scared of your own mother?"

"No, but…"

"And you're still alive?"

"Yes, but…"

"So, what's the problem?" she asked innocently.

She could blithely ignore minor details such as the fact that he had ended up having his stomach pumped in a Muggle hospital, while the Hogwarts staff instigated a nationwide manhunt and his friends had been writing his eulogy.

"You haven't said anything, have you? You haven't told him?" It was both a question and an accusation, sharp and direct, coming at Harry from nowhere, like a glittering Snitch suddenly appearing from out of a bank of cloud.

"There wasn't time," Harry said lamely, knowing that she was referring to their last chat about Snape. He knew she was right for once - that, sooner or later, he'd have to open up to Snape. They'd be at loggerheads for ever otherwise. Luna looked sceptical… and Harry blurted the truth:

"I don't want him to think I'm soft," he admitted.

"Is he a Scorpio?" she asked, her thoughts taking an unexpected detour towards another pet hobby. "I could do his chart."

"What?" As usual, Harry was having a job following her.

"He looks as though he would be. Dark, moody, passionate…it would fit. November… It'll be his birthday soon. You could get him a present. When is his birthday?"

Shamefaced, Harry had to confess that he had absolutely no idea.

That's what's so freaky about Luna, thought Harry - a conversation with her is like a game of _'Serpents and Broomsticks'_: one minute you're flying along, doing really well, thinking you've got the game sussed; and the next minute she asks some perfectly simple question, and you go hurtling down a serpent until you're right back at the beginning of the board.

x x x

Thank heavens Hermione was more circumspect in her enquiries.

"Have you spoken to Dumbledore?" she'd asked, as they made their way back to the Castle from Herbology. That was her way of asking if Harry had heard any news about Snape. She'd been worried about him all morning ever since Draco had made his caustic remark.

"Dumbledore says he's OK."

Now it was Hermione's turn to look sceptical. She could understand Harry's attitude _rationally_ - she knew he wasn't used to making emotional demands, that he was extremely reticent about pushing his relationship with his father, passive even, responding only to overt signs of encouragement, not wanting to appear 'needy' - but she couldn't agree with him. Snape had been gone a week - surely Harry must be just a little bit curious about how he was getting on. In Harry's place she would have wanted to visit him, or, at the very least, to send him an owl.

They had just reached the courtyard when they heard a clattering of tiny footsteps on the cobbles behind them, and Harry felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Dobby.

"Mr Harry Potter, Sir!" the elf wheezed, out of breath. His bat ears and the tip of his long, pointy nose were turning purple in the cold. "Dobby has been looking all over for you, Sir! Dobby has looked in the library and in the dungeons and in the Owlery; and then Dobby has been running all the way to Mr Hagrid's house to find you, and back to the Astronomy Tower, and now Dobby has been to the Gryffindor Common Room… and Harry Potter was in none of these places…"

"No. We've been in the Greenhouse. Why didn't you just check a time-table to see which lesson I'd be in?" Harry said, patiently.

"Aaaah! Dobby is a stupid, unworthy elf!" He dropped to his knees and began to pound his head on the frosty ground. "Dobby does not deserve to have Harry Potter for a friend! Dobby has no brain! Dobby will punish himself, Sir!"

He began the head-banging again, until Harry and Hermione each grabbed him by a scrawny arm and together pulled him to his feet.

"What did you want, Dobby?"

The elf goggled at Harry, his bulging green eyes filled with adulation:

"Harry Potter is so good to Dobby. So forgiving! So Noble! So…"

"What do you want?" Harry reiterated, stemming the worshipful flow.

"Dobby is bringing a message to Harry Potter," the elf announced with a little flash of self-importance. He arranged himself in a declamatory pose, his feet braced in a wide stance and his arms half raised in front of him, leathery palms facing forwards, the long, bony fingers stretching dramatically to the sky.

Harry and Hermione watched in amusement.

"Well, so what's the message?" Harry asked eventually.

Instead of speaking, Dobby began a series of sinuous, weaving motions with his arms, like an Indian lotus hand-dance. The gesticulations grew more energetic until, with one final snap of his fingers in the air, Dobby slapped himself round the head and promptly fell over backwards.

Hermione laughed, but in Harry's eyes there were stirrings of alarm. He seized the elf by the shoulders and dragged him up again.

"Dobby! Is this a message from Quig? What's happened? Tell me **in words**!"

The elf looked crestfallen.

"Dobby is telling Harry Potter the message exactly as Quigley is giving it to Dobby, Sir. Has Dobby done wrong?"

Harry grabbed him before he had a chance to beat himself up again.

"I haven't got time for this. **In words**, Dobby!"

"Quigley is saying, Sir, that Eamon has bitten Professor Snape."

From the look of horror on Harry's face, Hermione could tell this was bad. Very bad. Harry seemed paralysed by the news.

"Is he… is he dead?" he whispered, hardly daring to ask.

Dobby shook his head sorrowfully. Beside her, Hermione sensed Harry stiffen, but he didn't move; he was in shock, unable to make a decision. Hermione took control.

"You've got to go to him, Harry."

She took his arm and began to shepherd him towards the castle entrance. He stumbled along in a daze for a few, faltering steps… and then he snapped to attention, as though waking from a trance.

"His office!" he gasped, breaking into a run. "Floo from his office!"

Together they raced up the steps, along one corridor, round the corner, through a passageway, up another corridor… then down the steps to the dungeons and along to the dark green door of Snape's office. Harry had muttered the password and was inside the room before Hermione had even got her wand out to try '_Alohomora_'. The fact that Harry knew Snape's password had taken her by surprise: it was little things like that which really brought it home to her that Harry was indeed Snape's son.

As he fiddled to unscrew the lid of the jar of Floo Powder, clumsy in his haste, Hermione finally got a chance to ask:

"Harry, who is Eamon?"

He looked up sharply.

"A Valera Viper. They're about as poisonous as you can get."

**End of Chapter. Next and final chapter: WISHFUL THINKING. Will Harry and Hermione be in time to save Snape?**


	7. Wishful Thinking

**Author's note: Well, here is the last chapter of this ficlet. I have set up a cliche-ridden situation here, to see if I could emerge with dignity intact... This chapter is mainly from Hermione's PoV (finally).**

**LOST PERSPECTIVE 4**

**POST MORTEM **

By Bellegeste

**CHAPTER 7 : WISHFUL THINKING**

Friday 13th November

Snape Cottage

Quig met them as they staggered out of the grate, heads still spinning, clutching each other for support. He signed something: urgent, emphatic gestures that meant about as much to Hermione as Dobby's ludicrous pantomime, but Harry nodded, and then pounded up the dark staircase, taking the steps three at a time.

Watching anxiously from the unlit hallway, Hermione saw his shadowy outline pause before one of the closed doors and gently push it open. She heard a brief murmur of low voices. Only seconds later, Harry came back downstairs. He slumped heavily into an armchair, his head in his hands, stabbing his fingers through his hair - it was growing long again - in tense, angry jabs. Hermione was moving towards him, to console him, when he leaped to his feet, a gleam of manic desperation in his eyes.

"I'm going to kill that fucking snake!"

"Harry!" she pleaded, barring his exit. She couldn't bear not knowing. "Is Snape alright?"

She could see it was an effort for him to stay calm. The rush of panic had been replaced by a flood of relief: either way he was swamped. He drew in several stormy breaths, but when he spoke the anger had drained to a manageable level.

"Quig got him the antidote, just in time. He's still groggy, but the fever's broken now. He'll be OK by tomorrow. I told him we were here."

Hermione choked on her disbelief:

"Is that it? You're just going to leave him up there on his own? Isn't he in the most frightful pain? Aren't you going to stay with him- sit with him? Just _be there_ for him? Is there anything he needs? Did you even ask? Harry, what do you think you're doing? Why did you bother to come at all?"

"He needs to sleep it off," Harry replied hollowly. "And I'm going to talk to Eamon."

Side-stepping, he manoeuvred past her and stalked towards the basement.

Now that the immediate crisis was over, Harry seemed reluctant to be close to Snape. He was keeping a protective distance, from Snape and from his emotions, unsure how to handle either of them. It enabled him to cope, outwardly, much better than Hermione who felt - she knew it was silly - shaky and rather tearful. At first, she found his reaction hurtful, callous even. Yet, as she stared after him, she picked up on the signals that he had failed to mask - the lifeless tone of voice, the sag of his shoulders, the void in his eyes - and she realised that he was not coping well at all. The prospect of losing Snape - losing another person that he cared about - had left him desolate. He was not unfeeling: he was merely surviving the only way he knew.

All this time Hermione had been making a valiant attempt to subdue her own feelings. For over a week she had been resisting the impulse to ask after Snape, to pester Harry, Dumbledore, Remus - anyone - for news. The look on Snape's face as she and Harry had said goodbye that day, and her complete inability to respond, had haunted her. She knew he was troubled and she hated not being able to help. It went against her nature to be unduly secretive, but she was very aware that she needed to be cautious about expressing anything beyond a friendly concern. There were so many reasons **not** to get involved; so many ways in which any hint of affection might be misconstrued.

Affection? She had told herself repeatedly - logically and sensibly - that what she felt for Snape could only be a _crush_, and a pretty silly one at that. This was Professor Snape she was talking about - the 'sallow faced, hook-nosed, greasy git'… not some hunky Quidditch star or that drop-dead gorgeous lead singer of the _'Wanton Warlocks'_… A stupid crush. Anything else would be ridiculous. She had been trying for weeks to convince herself. A schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher - well, full marks for originality there, Hermione! It _had_ to be a pathetic infatuation: yes, she had been swept along by the dark romance of Harry's history; she had cast Snape in the role of tragic hero: in this fiction she could be the heroine, and he would sweep her off her feet and they would fly away together on his broomstick into a happy-ever-after sunset. Even the serious, intellectually focussed Hermione Granger was not immune to the occasional fluffy daydream.

The trouble was, it didn't feel like that. She had no romantic, soft-focus illusions. _That_ would have been a fantasy. What Hermione felt was far more mundane - ordinary, prosaic really - but it felt _real_.

It had all started when Harry had confided in her that day by the lake. She'd been horrified, at first, to discover that their bête noir, the man they had all come to regard as the personification of all that was heartless, cruel and sadistic, was Harry's biological father. But she had hidden her shock. For Harry's sake, she had tried to put a positive gloss on the situation, made every attempt to be supportive. It wasn't that she expected Snape to claim Harry's affections straightaway, or to fill the dreadful vacuum left by Sirius, but it seemed the only _rational_ thing to do - to make the best out of an unexpectedly bad job. So she had done everything possible to muzzle her doubts and prejudices and focus on Snape's qualities - she had assumed that she would find some eventually if she looked hard enough. Then she would point them out to Harry, try to convince him that having Snape genes was not such an unmitigated disaster after all. Wasn't that what friends were for?

And Harry had been in such a turmoil: sometimes she'd caught him staring at Snape - in Hall, perhaps, or in Potions - with a wistful expression, as though he were simply longing for the Professor to assume his role and behave like a real father. At other times, she had been startled to see a look of vicious hatred, barely concealed, as though Harry detested the man. She hadn't understood the need for all the secrecy; she hadn't then realised that Harry was plotting to kill his father.

It had sickened her when she discovered that; when she learned about Harry's treachery. How could anybody do that to _anyone_, least of all their own flesh and blood. Even if they were cursed? Harry seemed to think that the 'curse' gave him a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, that he was off the hook. Even the staff had been remarkably lenient - Harry hadn't exactly got into a whole heap of trouble, had he? So he'd been banned from Quidditch? Big Deal - it was a nasty, cold game to play in the winter anyway; it gave him extra time to catch up on all the study he'd missed. And what if he'd had to talk to a psychologist? Hermione couldn't help feeling that that might, actually, have been rather interesting… purely as an objective exploration into one's psychological processes, of course…

She'd tried, tactfully, to winkle out of Harry details of what had gone on during that week at Snape's home - by all accounts Harry had made a complete botch of it. So typical. Instead of using the opportunity to get to know his father, it sounded as though he had done the exact opposite. Instead of taking care of him - Hermione hadn't appreciated until lately how badly injured Snape had been (the mere thought now crippled her with tremors of retrospective concern ) - Harry had, from what she could make out, spent the week applying emotional thumb-screws. His relationship with Snape, judging by the few times Hermione had seen them together, had become even more painfully precarious than it had been before. It was hard to tell though; there was more going on between those two than met the eye, she was sure.

The more she'd learned about Snape this term - and that wasn't much: Harry was so damned protective about his father's privacy - the more she'd found herself _liking_ him. Was 'liking' too strong a term? She had never 'hated' Snape as such - not in the same way that Ron and Harry did - but, yes, she had _**dis**liked_ him and resented the way he belittled her efforts in class; she'd thought his teaching methods unfair, partial and patronising. No, it was more that her antagonism had been replaced by curiosity, an ambivalence, a wider tolerance: she would now, if the occasion warranted, give Snape the benefit of the doubt. From where she was standing, Snape's good points were coming to the fore, while Harry's were receding into a decidedly murky background.

She had always respected Snape's skill and his encyclopaedic knowledge of his subject, even if she hadn't appreciated the way he demonstrated it. Looking back, she cringed to think how cruelly they had misjudged him in their first few years at Hogwarts. Harry had even thought he was trying to poison Lupin! But no, she argued, he _had been_ mean and vindictive on occasions; he was continually carping and sarcastic. He definitely got some kick out of intimidating the students - sometimes she wondered if that were the only part of his job that gave him any satisfaction whatsoever, he seemed to dislike it and his pupils so much. Oh, apart from Draco. Talk about favouritism! No, she was far from blind to his faults. At one time they had all been terrified of the man - Neville still was! Yet now she was beginning to see that he may have had reasons for his harsh behaviour, even if they did not necessarily excuse it.

It was impossible to say at what point the scales had tipped towards 'liking'. She found Snape _interesting_, certainly. As she had gleaned more information about his personal life, she had warmed to him as an individual. She began to open her mind to the possibility that Snape had a life behind and beyond the professorial persona.

His closet appreciation of Art (she could see why he kept that under wraps; how had that started? She longed to ask him. Harry had told her how animated he'd become when explaining about the paintings, and Hermione had been entranced: she wanted to see this side of Snape for herself); his quiet good taste (Harry had, grudgingly, described the Cottage and its contents); why, even the fact that he chose to live in the Cottage at all, rather than in ostentatious splendour at the Manor; his loyalty to Quig and, above all, the honourable way in which he had accepted his responsibility for Harry, all denoted an integrity which held immense appeal for Hermione.

She had found herself wanting to talk to him - about Potions, about teaching, about himself, his family, poisons, tuatara, anything, everything. She pictured herself engaging him in discussion of Elf rights, or Giant appeasement, or even, controversially, the Pureblood question. He'd make mincemeat of her, of course, but she held some strong opinions of her own and she was prepared to defend them in a debate. It would be fascinating. If only she could get him to stop and listen. To talk instead of 'lecture'. Perhaps, if he would just start responding like a human being, he could be a _friend_, like Remus? That was all she wanted; that would be enough. She could learn such a lot from him; she was sure he could be really _informative_.

She had not forgotten that he had been a Death Eater. Nor had it escaped her attention - how could it, with the lurid exposé dominating several editions of the Daily Prophet- that he had a dark, disreputable past. She couldn't imagine the straight-laced, puritanically proper Potions master getting involved in anything so scandalous. Or rather, she _could_ imagine it… That was the problem. And it fanned a risqué flicker of interest… But she believed that he had reformed, renounced his Death Eater affiliations. She really did. Dumbledore trusted him; that was good enough for her. And as for the other thing, it all came back to integrity. Snape was a professional. He was - and even to Hermione it seemed an odd word to use when describing Snape - a 'gentleman'.

So, she had been urging Harry for weeks now to make more effort to get to know his father. She thought it would be good for him, for both of them - for _all_ of them. _She_ had wanted to get to know him too. That was all. _That was all._

Then, over the past fortnight, observing Snape's distress and seeing him increasingly worn down, exhausted and racked with anxiety about Harry, she had found herself consumed with an overwhelming desire to help him, to share his pain. If anyone needed a friend right now, he did, and she was willing to volunteer for the job. It was funny, he didn't repel her any more. The piquancy of his loss had cut through the grease and made him palatable. She just wanted to put her arms round him and hold him…

And he was old enough to be her father. He was her teacher. She _knew_ that. _What the hell was she thinking?_

_x x x_

Left alone in the sitting room - Quig had unobtrusively absented himself - Hermione looked around. She half recognised it from Harry's descriptions: the low chairs by the fireplace, the beautiful, polished wood, the simple, deep blue fabric, the white walls. She moved idly towards the bookcase, but then stopped herself with a sigh of impatience. She couldn't go on pretending any longer. _She had to see him_.

The hallway was still gloomy.

"_Lumos!"_ Hermione flicked her wand - she didn't want to be blundering around a strange house in the dark. She fetched a glass of water - she had to have some pretext for visiting him - from the kitchen, then she tip-toed up the stairs.

On the landing she paused, her knuckles only a scruple away from the door, as a lurking demon of doubt grappled her from behind, felling her compassion in a sneaky tackle. Snape was always so unassailably self-contained; he demanded of himself inhumanly high standards of endurance and fortitude; he would hate to be an object of pity. He would not want her - anyone - to see him hurt. In conceding weakness he would be diminished.

Hermione understood that; she respected him for it. But she couldn't turn back now - not go meekly downstairs and sip tea as though this were merely a social call, waiting for the antidote to work its magic so that everyone could go on as normal and pretend that nothing had happened. Pretend that the very possibility of Snape's death had not left both her and Harry turned inside out like squid in a creel: entrails exposed, organs pumping for the world to see.

No, she needed to go to him: her heart required the visual reassurance of seeing Snape alive before it could perform that contorted back-flip into her chest…

In the stillness of the landing, her hand still poised to knock, suspended in time, Hermione was swept along in the march of a nervous ticker-tape parade. Her heart was now an oompah-band, marking time, booming in her ears, while all around her was a flutter of torn emotions: pale scraps of anxiety, alarm, dread, relief, raining down; and, here and there, glinting silver shreds of excitement and desire…

Hermione had seen enough soapy TV at her parents' house to recognise that she was straying dangerously towards the borders of Fantasy land. You know, the place where the quiet, hometown girl smoothes a cool hand over the fevered brow of the injured, enigmatic stranger… their eyes meet and… Kismet! _Now who's being ridiculous?_ she told herself firmly. _It's not like that._

The problem was, she didn't know a great deal about poisons; she didn't know what to expect. Potions lessons, she now realised, had tended to concentrate on the more theoretical side of the reactions. In any case, they had never dealt directly with the truly lethal poisons, tempting though it may have been for Snape to let them experiment. A snatch of conversation with Remus popped into her mind: Harry had been moaning about how dull the 'poisons' lessons were:

"And I thought that section of the course would be really, sort of exciting - and it's totally lame. We haven't poisoned anything bigger than a Flobberworm yet. Even Snape finds it boring," he'd complained.

Lupin had laughed:

"You should see him when he gets going on his _DIABolicals_ and _LUCs_ - he's like a man possessed!"

"?"

"_Death in a Bottle_ and _Liquid Unforgivable Curses_," Remus had clarified. "That's the heavy stuff - to Severus everything else is just pumpkin juice…"

Even Hermione, to whom all knowledge was sacred, had to own up to taking more notice of the dramatic, magical poisons than of the less exotic, animal ones. She could almost recite the lesson on _Purpuramors_ - the potion that turned your blood into bright purple fizzing acid, which melted your veins and erupted in explosive, blackcurrant blisters… or the aging draughts such as _Accelerage_, or the cannibaliant _Choxifixion (_which turned your body into a chocolate so compulsively more-ish that you devoured your own flesh)_… _but she couldn't, for the life of her, remember how to distinguish the effects of one snake bite from another. Snape had never dwelt on symptoms - perhaps he was unwilling to share his first hand experience. (Hermione was assuming that this was not the only time he had needed to test out the efficacy of one of his antidotes.)

In Hermione's mind, organic poisons were unpleasantly associated with food-poisoning: _'d' and 'v'_ and an urgent dash to Madam Pomfrey for a dose of _Settling Tonic_. Snake bites, she knew, could trigger convulsions or seizures; a distant snippet of information reminded her that Python venom paralysed the diaphragm, causing death by suffocation. None of this was any help to her now. She couldn't imagine Snape so stricken, nor how she might react if he were.

For another moment she vacillated, not squeamish, but sensitive to Snape's dignity. Then, knocking very softly, so as not to wake him if he were asleep, she opened the door. Again she hesitated, silhouetted against the brightness of the landing behind her. In the glow of the candle-flames, her mane of hair was tipped with red-golden highlights. From the far side of the room, two dark eyes flickered open, reflecting the candle-light.

"Lily?" Snape whispered.

The single word pierced Hermione like a poisoned arrow. She entered the room and put the glass on the bedside table, which was empty apart from his wand and a small book which lay open.

"No, Sir, it's me, Hermione. I've brought you some water. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

In the dim light there was a sickly pallor about his face, but his drawn features relaxed, if anything, on recognising Hermione. He was lying stiffly, still fully clothed, on the bed. His right arm lay useless at his side, the hand inexpertly bandaged, and with some kind of a poultice. Catching the direction of her gaze, he grimaced.

"Quig is no nurse," he muttered, "but…"

_…but he saved my life._ He didn't need to say it.

Hermione thought she should probably go now, but she couldn't bring herself to leave him so soon. She wanted to be near him. She wished that there was something that needed doing, so she could bustle about being useful. Madam Pomfrey never had this problem.

"How are you, Sir?"

He looked terrible.

"I am alive." _I thought I was going to die_.

He sounded strained and faint. There was a shade of irony, bordering on bitterness there which she didn't quite understand. Was it meant to be a wry comment? Perhaps what they had taken for sarcasm all these years was just a very dry, _very_ black sense of humour. Perhaps it was the pain talking.

"Is it very painful, Sir?"

She didn't know why she asked that; it obviously hurt like hell. Just from the way his whole body was tensed, rigid, held absolutely still, she could tell that the slightest movement was agony. Even his breathing was shallow, cautiously controlled, as though the mere flow of air into his lungs might jar a raw nerve. But she had to ask: there was something dangerously taboo about asking Snape a personal question: the frisson of intimacy thrilled her. On seeing him like that an entire nest of Billywigs had hatched in her stomach.

"The pain will pass." _And I thought the Mark was painful! Oh, pull yourself together, man. What are you fishing for - sympathy?_

Hermione felt a flush of indignation. She wasn't fooled. He was so brave, so stoical! He shouldn't have to endure this, not even for an hour!

"But Harry said you'd had the antidote! Is it not working? Can't you take some more?" she exclaimed, forgetting to be impersonal. She hadn't anticipated that his suffering would upset her so much; she hoped her concern wasn't too transparent.

"As I said- I am alive," he said, clipping the sentence into a series of broken phrases. "The antidote - has already fulfilled its function. - Some toxins - are metabolised - for longer than others- even when - neutralised."

"Is there anything I can do, Sir? Is there anything you want?"

_**Do?** Can you make the pain go away? That would be good. Oh Merlin, this is pitiful! Don't be such a drivelling milk-sop! **Want?** What do I want? I want… Don't give in to it, Severus. Don't be a fool. You're rambling, man; you're not thinking straight. I want someone to… I want you… …to hold me…_

The barest shake of his head.

"No. It is only - a matter of time."

Talking was clearly an effort. She was surprised that he had bothered to speak to her at all. Surely he should have yelled at her by now to get out? Dismissed her with some sniping insult? He didn't usually spare his students' feelings. Did that mean he wanted her to stay? It flattered her to think so. In your dreams, Hermione! But she allowed herself to believe it anyway. Snape closed his eyes, panting slightly; tried to moisten his dry lips.

"Would you like a drink, Sir?" She cringed as she heard herself saying it - how corny could she get? Any minute now she'd be offering to 'plump' his pillows…

He turned his head fractionally and his eyes travelled over to the bedside table and then, mutely, up to her face. She understood, with a shock, just how weak he really was - that he hadn't the strength to lean over and pick up the glass. Suddenly it scared her to see him so incapacitated.

"Here…"

Bending nearer to him, Hermione brought the glass up to his lips, at the same time shyly sliding her hand behind his head to help him sit up a little. His skin felt unnaturally hot; he was trembling with the exertion of raising himself up. After a couple of sips, he slumped back against the pillow. As she eased her hand away, she couldn't help wishing that her arm had been supporting his shoulders… Never in her wildest dreams (and, recently, she'd had some quite _racy_ ones, which, sadly, she could not fully remember…) had she imagined getting so close to him in _real life_. So close she could _smell_ him - a scent of acrid herbs and sweat and something medicinal, the poultice probably. She sensed a quiver of something inside her that was definitely not sympathy…

"You need to get some sleep, Sir," she said, blushing, turning away to hide her embarrassment, and putting the glass back down on the table.

It was impossible not to see the open book there: she guessed it was the one that Lily had given him. The temptation to look at it was irresistible. Ever since Luna had mentioned the book, Hermione had been using _'Linguascio'_ and secretly practising her French.

A verse had been copied out by hand, at the end of a page of quilled writing. The poem was so short that Hermione could read it at one glance:

**'C'est toi, mon rêve;**

**je t'évoque à volonté**

**en respirant, je trace …'**

_(You are my dream:_

_I **will** you into existence_

_as I breathe,_

_and trace the outline of your lips._

_You are my dream:_

_I will you into existence…_

_You hold me, and your touch_

_fills the emptiness._

_You see me:_

_in your eyes I am alive._

_For that alone, my dream_

_is more precious_

_than my life.)_

'…plus spécial que la vie.' Hermione felt a noose of hopelessness tightening on her throat: how could she ever compete with a love like that? What could she offer to compare with the intensity and perfection of that idealised, _untested_ passion?

Then she turned back to Snape. Caring transcended petty jealousies especially, Hermione reasoned, when one's rival was a ghost. What _memory_ was going to look after him every time he was bitten by one of his poisonous pets?

The temperature in the room was arctic.

"You should get into bed, Sir. You'll get cold," she said, trying to sound practical, scolding away the throng of more tender thoughts threatening to hijack her mind. She was longing to touch his good hand, to stroke it.

But how could he get into bed? He could hardly move. No wonder he was still dressed, lying on top of the covers. He would need help… Hermione was shocked to find herself contemplating the buttons on his shirt… his trousers… Oh Merlin! _What was she thinking now?_ She just prayed that he was not reading her mind at that moment.

"I'll fetch Harry," she muttered in shame and confusion, needing to escape fast.

In the doorway, though, she stopped. Somebody had to do this. If she didn't say something to Snape now, she might never get another chance:

"Harry does love you, Sir," she said nobly into the darkness. "He just doesn't know how to tell you."

_We both do, she thought._

X X X

Harry was coming up from the basement. He was surprised to find Hermione sitting at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall.

"Eamon thinks he may have an abscess under his fang," he said, conversationally, as though that excused everything.

"Oh, God! Harry, if Quig hadn't been there…" she whispered.

"Hermione? You OK?"

"You'd better go up to him," she replied evasively. "He needs help getting his jacket off. You may have to cut the sleeve to get it over his arm. Or, better, try using _'Suturasolvo'_ - then it'll be easier to mend the seam. Harry… Please don't hurt him."

A whole palette of clashing emotions suffused her voice. It didn't sound like Hermione at all.

"Budge up." Harry sat next to her on the stair, trying to figure her out. It took him a while. Finally he got there.

"But _you told me_… **you told me** you didn't like him… You said…" Harry was too wrung out to be angry, now; for the moment he was just bewildered and betrayed.

"I know what I said." She hung her head, not wanting to face him.

"But, God! Hermione, that's… gross!"

"I know."

"For Merlin's sake, he's my _father_!"

"I _know_."

"He's old enough to be…"

"I **know**!"

"It's not on, Hermione. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Her answer was a sober shade of bitterness, resignation and common-sense:

"What does it matter? It'll never happen anyway. He's still in love with your mother."

Harry sat with Snape until he fell asleep. When he came downstairs again, Hermione had gone. She had Floo-ed back to Hogwarts.

**END OF STORY.**

And that's a cop-out ending if ever there was one! Yes, yes, I can't leave them like that... So what should happen next to Hermione and Snape? What do you think? (OK, I know I've already written LP/5, but I'm interested to know what you think anyway...)

Thank you to everybody who has read and reviewed this story. I love getting your comments.


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